by Ken Bruen
As carefully as you can when you’ve whacked someone’s lights out and guzzled most of a bottle of spirits. She didn’t know how long she was driving, her mind refusing to come up with a plan. Finally, she stopped, in Croydon, beside a deserted warehouse. Turned her engine off.
She checked her surroundings, not a soul and better, beside the warehouse was a Dumpster. She got Angie out and dragged her by the hair to the Dumpster, Angie’s shoes were gone.
Where were the fucking shoes, in the car?
She got the lid off the Dumpster, that sucker was heavy, then with an almighty effort, pulled Angie up, threw her in the garbage. The smell from the thing was appalling, a blend of decaying vegetables, she hoped they were vegetables and urine with… curry?
She slammed the lid down. It made a ferocious bang, and she muttered:
‘Nice, real fucking nice, wake the freaking dead.’
And she began to giggle, said:
‘Angie, didn’t wake you, did I?’
Hysteria engulfed her, and she added:
‘Don’t ever fucking call me Liz.’
Then a blast of cold wind hit, and she stopped, realized she had to get the hell out of there.
She did.
When she finally got back to her flat, she looked in the backseat for Angie’s shoes. They were there. She took them into her home and first thing, she had a large shot of the Stoli, then a few more and later, tried Angie’s shoes on, they fit:
Snugly.
She was still wearing them when she passed out, thinking:
The night wasn’t a total bust.
She’d been meaning to buy new shoes.
Who had the time?
33
Brant was dozing when the phone shrilled. He grabbed at the receiver, mumbled:
‘Yeah?’
Heard:
‘Congratulations, big boy.’
Very posh tone.
Only one person called him that and, of course, the haughty flighty accent. It had to be that mad cow, his agent, Linda Gillingham-Bowl
Fucking name. Take you a week to get it out.
And he shuddered, he’d ridden the cow, Jesus wept. He’d managed to con Porter Nash into writing most of his novel and then got hold of this agent, a real high-profile one, but fuck, old. He’d meant to ply her with drink, trick her into giving him an advance, and… instead, he’d given her one.
Real bad move.
But it sure made her work like a banshee on his book. He needed coffee, lots of it.
But here was:
‘It’s wonderful you got shot.’
He sat up, his eyes groggy, said:
‘I’m glad you’re pleased.’
He heard her give that artificial laugh they practiced in agent school, and she said: ‘You are so droll, you naughty boy, of course I’m relieved you’re alright but with the imminent publication of Calibre, it’s perfect. Hero cop shot on eve of publication. It’s such wondrous PR’
He hated the bitch, said:
‘Glad I could have helped.’
She was highly excited, said:
‘Everybody wants you, all the major chat shows, and with that rugged charm and roguish humour, you’re a natural.’
‘Jesus.’
Before he could add more, there was a pounding on the door, he said:
‘Don’t go away, I have to answer the door.’
More of that awful laughter as she said:
‘I’m hanging on for dear life, you devil.’
He pulled the door open and cops piled in, led by Porter Nash, a slightly ashamed-looking Nash, who said:
‘Sergeant Brant, I’m here to arrest on you suspicion of the murder of Rodney Lewis.’
Brant, took a moment, then said:
‘Can I just finish my call?’
Indicating the phone.
Porter asked:
‘Your lawyer?’
Brant laughed, said:
‘Fuck no, better, it’s me agent.’
He picked up the phone, said:
‘Gotta go, babe. I’ve been arrested.’
She was near orgasmic in her delight, said:
‘You sweetheart, you’re such a marketing dream, this is ideal, you want me to do anything?’
‘Yeah, put up bail.’
He put the phone down, turned to Porter, asked:
‘Can I get some coffee?’
Porter produced a warrant, said:
‘This allows us to make a search of your premises and yes, while we’re conducting the search, you may make coffee, I’m afraid I’ll have to accompany you.’
Brant smiled, asked:
‘Got a fag?’
Any other place being searched would have been tossed with total disregard, the cops not giving a shit about what they damaged or ruined:
But Brant.
Uh-uh.
He might be under arrest, but he was far from gone and they knew better than to fuck with his stuff, so when they found various items of dope, porn, they ignored it, Brant had a long memory. Their brief was to find a Glock, and that’s all they searched for, if not too diligently.
Brant was savouring his coffee, drawing hard on the menthol cig Porter had given him. Porter was staring at him, asked:
‘You don’t seem too worried. This is a serious charge, and everybody knows you threatened him.’
Brant smiled, no warmth or humour, his most calculated one, said:
‘You know Porter, you were with me, so if everybody knows, you told them, I thought we were mates?’
Porter felt terrible, they were mates, if the most unlikely pairing on the planet, but Porter took his role as cop very seriously, said:
‘If you took the law into your own hands, you’re no longer a policeman.’
Brant was still smiling, asked:
‘When was he hit?’
Porter, taken by surprise, needed a moment to think, then told Brant the time and date.
Brant dropped the cig on the floor, ground it out. Porter had to fight the impulse to clean up. Brant said:
‘I’ve an alibi.’
Porter knew all about Brant’s circle of hookers, who’d do anything for him, said:
‘Your hooker crew won’t bail you on this one I’m afraid.’
Brant stared right into Porter’s eyes, said:
‘Oh, it’s not a hooker, much much better.’
Porter had to know, asked:
‘Might I know who it is?’
Brant took his sweet time, then:
‘Falls, that’s Sergeant Falls to you.’
Then he stuck out his hands, asked:
‘Wanna cuff me?’
Porter had considered it, anything to wipe that fucking smile off his face, but said:
‘No, I don’t think that will be necessary.’
Brant sighed, said:
‘Pity, I thought you gays, you were into all that S and M stuff.’
The lead search cop looked in, said:
‘We found nothing, sir.’
Porter was barely holding it in, snapped:
‘Nothing?’
‘No, sir.’
Brant looked at the cop, winked.
The press had a field day with Brant’s arrest, the killing of Rodney Lewis smacked of vigilante cop justice, and they’d been keen to nail Brant for years.
His agent, true to her word, had a high-priced lawyer ar rive, and without definite evidence, Brant was bailed. Roberts had been despatched to get over to Falls’s place, see if the alibi held up.
The Super wanted Brant to go down, shouted at Roberts:
‘You tell that black cunt to be very careful about helping Brant get out of this. If he goes down, she’s going with him.’
Roberts wisely, said nothing.
On the steps of the police station, Brant gave an impromptu press conference, replied to all questions:
‘Read it in my new book, Calibre, due next week.’
His agent was over the moon.
Th
e man was a publishing bonanza.
34
Falls was in a deep stupor when Roberts came banging on her door. Took her a moment to come round, then she felt her stomach heave, a biblical headache kick in, the banging was ferocious on the door, she screamed:
‘Jesus, give me a bloody minute.’
And heard:
‘It’s the police. In a minute we’ll force the door.’
Roberts was alone but in no mood for Falls and her nonsense. Falls thought:
Oh, God. They’ve found Angie already. I’m fucked.
She opened the door, saw Roberts, and nearly threw up on him, he pushed her aside, said:
‘On the piss again, that’s a help.’
She closed the door quietly, the world spun for a moment, and she had to struggle for balance. Roberts surveyed the wreck of the room, bottles everywhere, and then took a closer look at Falls, said:
‘I like the shoes, very classy, though I’m not sure they go with the T-shirt.’
Falls gazed in horror at Angie’s shoes, how the hell did that happen, and at Snoopy on her shirt. Like her own self, he was the worse for wear. Roberts picked up a bottle of Stoli, examined the top, asked:
‘What’d you do, crack someone over the head with this?’
Before Falls could utter a word, he poured a healthy measure into a mug, said:
‘You better have some of this, hair of the dog that bit you. But I think the dog was rabid from the state of you here.’
And he offered the mug, she could hardly hold it from the shakes, but managed to get it to her lips, drank greedily. The liquid hit her like acid and she gasped, thought she was going to spew wholesale, Roberts watched with a certain detached interest. He’d been down this road himself so he wasn’t entirely unsympathetic. It was, in fact, Falls who’d hauled him back from the toilet so there was a certain symmetry in this. The battle in her stomach waged for nearly three minutes. Doesn’t seem long, but if you’re the one with the stomach, it’s eternity:
Her stomach won out and the booze settled in for another session, waiting for more of the same. Roberts said:
‘Sit down before you collapse.’
She did, sit that is.
Kicked off the shoes, Christ, soon as she was able. She was burning those fuckers.
Roberts made some coffee and as he did so, Falls recalled bits and horrendous pieces of the evening before.
Holy shit, she’d killed the Vixen.
Roberts put a steaming mug before her, said:
‘No more booze. Get that down you and let me see if I can get any sense out of you?’
She managed to speak, said:
‘I’m okay now. Why are you here?’
Roberts sat back, remembered when Falls had been the wet dream of the nick, and gung ho, believing a black WPC could really make a difference. The years had soured her beyond belief, but then he didn’t believe a whole lot in anything either. Truth was, he’d always liked her and so he went easier than he’d planned, said:
‘I’m going to give you a break, for old times’ sake, I could start asking you where you were with on a certain night, and more importantly, who you were with?’
Falls was convinced it was Angie. She was going to go down for the psycho bitch, but in truth, she didn’t feel any remorse for walloping her… killing her?… well?
Roberts said:
‘Rodney Lewis was murdered and, of course, the most likely suspect is our man Brant.’
Then he did her the favour, told her the day and time of Lewis’s demise, and asked:
‘Sergeant Falls, were you with Sergeant Brant on the day and time in question?’
Falls had no idea. She couldn’t for the life of her remember anything beyond the hazy events of the previous evening. She said, without hesitation:
‘Yes, sir, I was.’
They both knew she was lying, and it hung there for a moment, blackening whatever affection, bond, had been between them. Roberts sighed, said:
‘Be very sure you want to do this… Liz.’
She nearly laughed, the last person to use her first name was rotting in a Dumpster.
Fuck, may be she’d kill anyone who came by, sure would give the postman a turn.
She reached for the bottle, and Roberts looked like he might protest, but then he waved her on. She hefted the bottle in her hand, looked at Roberts, and realized how easy it would be just to go on a wild murderous spree, as long as you had booze to lubricate the process, how hard could it be?
She poured a smallish amount, took a sip, and sat back, let out a tiny sigh of, if not contentment then a certain resignation. Roberts was half tempted to join her. He hated like hell to see a good copper go down the shitter. He said:
‘You go to bat for Brant, you’re more or less washed up, not that you seem the brightest prospect just at the minute, but the Super, you know he wants Brant and if you’re the one to save him, then, you’re the one he’ll destroy.’
She nodded:
Roberts stood up, asked:
‘You really want to jettison your career for… Brant?’
She smiled. It was such a rare event that Roberts was momentarily taken aback. He’d forgotten how pretty she could be and his damn fool heart skipped a beat, the smile was tinged with such sadness that he wanted to put his arms round her, tell her it would be alright.
Yeah… sure.
They were coppers and, worse, English ones, such a gesture would have scared the bejesus out of them both.
She stood too, and seemed like she might shake his hand, she asked:
‘You think I have a choice?’
And Roberts, who knew Brant better than most anyone, which wasn’t a whole lot, said:
‘I’ll do my best for you.’
She reached out, touched his arm, said:
‘You always have.’
Atthe door, he said:
‘Go easy on that stuff, we need the best and brightest.’
She gave another of those killer smiles, said:
‘Not to mention the blackest.’
Then she closed the door. Roberts hesitated for a moment, debated going back in but moved to his car, he thought about her last remark, and trying for the cynicism he needed to survive, he whispered:
‘Hang on to that sense of humour, you’re going to fucking need it.’
The best ammunition is the stuff you keep in reserve.
— Sergeant Brant
35
Falls’s alibi led to the case against Brant being dropped.
His agent threw a huge party in Covent Garden, and Brant invited everyone, including his hookers. As the party progressed, they’d do major biz, everybody wins. Falls was a no-show.
Porter showed up, looking sheepish and approached Brant, who was opening yet another magnum of Champers. Porter put out his hand, said:
‘No hard feelings.’
Brant stared at him, said:
‘ ’Course not, but will I forget you arrested me? Like fuck.’
And he moved away, carried on a swirl of goodwill from his followers. Porter got a gin and tonic, slim-line tonic, sat in a corner, said he’d down that then get the hell out of there, heard:
‘Yo buddy, how’s it hanging?’
Wallace, looking more like a cowboy than ever, fringed buckskin jacket and, of course, the boots. He sat down beside Porter, took a large swig of his bourbon, said:
‘All’s well that ends well.’
Porter stared at him and Wallace laughed, said:
‘You really need to lighten up, bro.’
Before Porter could reply, Wallace said:
‘I told you before, you’ve a conscience and that’s a dangerous commodity in these dark times. If you’re thinking of, you know, blowing the whistle on our other… event, lemme just run something by you.’
Porter waited:
Wallace was studying his boots, as if they fascinated him. Said, in a stone voice:
‘Suppose the cops were to search ano
ther cop’s home and they found a Glock, a Glock with your prints on it and gee, guess what, it was the gun offed the Lewis dude. Would it be stretching it to believe you did the deed as a favour for your buddy Brant?’
Porter was stunned, asked:
‘You’re blackmailing me?’
Wallace stood up, punched Porter on the shoulder, said:
‘Just running a little scenario by you, bro. Y’all take care now, gonna see if I can score me a little Brit chick?’
And he was gone.
Porter swept the gin and tonic off the table, said, in a near perfect imitation of Brant:
‘Bollocks.’
36
Falls, in a feeble attempt to tidy up, had taken a brush to sweep the floor and found Angie’s handbag under the sofa. She opened it, found the usual stuff and a tiny automatic. She got a fresh bottle of vodka, seal intact, and sat it on the table. She eased herself down, the automatic in her hand, you racked it, and bingo, a round ready to go. She looked at the vodka, unopened, said:
‘Virgin like.’
And gave the tiny smile that had so entranced Roberts.
She held the tiny gun up to her mouth, tasted it, cold.
And wondered what McDonald had thought of in his last moments, she regretted not washing the Snoopy T-shirt. She’d have regretted all the rest, but it was too much… ammunition?
37
Crackof dawn in Croydon, a wino was rooting around in a Dumpster, the smell didn’t bother him, he out-odoured it easily.
He was reaching for what looked like a box of Kentucky Fried Chicken. He sure liked the Colonel’s recipe, and fried? Accessorised his brain.
A hand shot up, a voice going:
‘What’s a girl gotta do to get a drink round here?’
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Document ID: fbd-d30f3b-b73b-7349-0184-5672-df40-b4f159
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Document creation date: 23.06.2012
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