A White Arrest ib-1

by Ken Bruen

  ‘Anything. Oh God, Rosie, I just want him planted so I can move on.’

  ‘Brant.’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘You’re a desperate girl. He does have the readies.’ Then Rosie, to change the subject, patted her new hairstyle. It was de rigueur dyke. Brushed severely back, right scraped from her hairline to flourish in a bun. She asked: ‘So what do you think of my new style? I know you have to have some face to take such exposure.’

  Falls gave it the full glare. She couldn’t even say it highlighted the eyes, a feature that should be deep hid, along with the rest. The eyes were usually a reliable cop-out. To the ugliest dog you could safely say: ‘You have lovely eyes.’ Not Rosie.

  Falls blurted: ‘You have to have some bloody cheek.’ But Rosie took it as a compliment, gushed: I’ll let you have the address of the salon, they’ll see you on short notice.’ Falls wanted to say: ‘Saw you coming all right.’ But instead: ‘That’d be lovely’

  Brant came swaggering in and Rosie said: ‘Oh, speak of the devil… Sergeant.’

  And over he came, the satanic smile forming: ‘Ladies?’

  ‘WPC Falls has a request. I’ll leave you to it.’

  And she legged it. Brant watched her, then said to Falls: ‘What the Jaysus happened to her hair?’

  Shannon was in a cafe on the Walworth Road, not a spit from the old Carter Street Station. He’d ordered a large tea. As it came, an old man asked: ‘Is this seat taken?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The man was surprised, manners were as rare as Tories on that patch. He sat down and was about to say so when the young man said: ‘No umpire should be changed during a match without the consent of both captains.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Before the toss the umpire shall agree with both captains on any special conditions affecting the conduct of the match.’

  ‘Ah, bit of a cricket buff are you?’

  ‘Before and during a match, the umpires shall ensure that the conduct of the game and the implements used are strictly in accordance with the laws.’

  The old man wondered if he should move but there were no other seats. Plus he was gasping for a brew. He tried: ‘Day off work, ’ave you?’

  The Umpire smiled, reached over and with his index finger, touched the man’s lips, said: ‘Time to listen, little man, lest those very lips be removed.’

  Before the man could react, the Umpire stood up and came round the table, put his arm over the old man’s shoulders, whispered: ‘The umpire shall be the sole judge of fair and unfair play.’

  The waitress, watching, thought ahh, it’s his old dad, isn’t that lovely? You just don’t see that sort of affection any more. It quite made her day.

  As Brant sat with Falls, the canteen radio kicked in, Sting with ‘Every Move You Make’. Brant grimaced, said: ‘The stalker’s anthem.’

  Falls listened a bit, said: ‘Good Lord, you’re right.’

  He gave a nod, indicative of nothing. She got antsy, didn’t know where to begin, said: ‘I dunno where to begin.’

  He took out his Weights. Asked: ‘D’ya mind?’

  ‘Personally no, but it is a no smoking zone.’

  He lit up, said: ‘Fuck ’em.’ And waited.

  Falls wanted to leave. A silent Brant was like a loaded weapon, primed. But she had no alternative. In a small voice, she said: ‘I’m in a spot of bother.’

  ‘Money or sex?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s always one or the other, always.’

  ‘Oh, right, it’s money.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Don’t you want to know what for?’

  ‘Why, what difference does that make? I’ll either give it to you or I won’t, a story won’t help.’

  ‘It’s a lot.’

  He waited.

  ‘It’s three thou.’

  She never knew why she went the extra. Called it nerves, but didn’t believe it.

  ‘OK.’

  She couldn’t believe it, said: ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Sure, I’m not a bank, you don’t have to bleed.’

  ‘Oh God, that’s wonderful, I’m in your debt.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘In my debt, like you said, you owe me.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He got up to leave, asked: ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll have the money by close of business — that OK with you?’

  ‘Of course. I — ’

  But he was gone.

  Precarious the pose

  Brant was in the ‘E’ room. Expecting a long run. Someone had hooked up a microwave. He looked through the goodies and found a Cornish pasty, muttered ‘Mmm,’ and put it in the micro. Zapped it twice and had it out. Took an experimental bite and stomped his foot, tears running from his eyes. The pasty, blazing, had fastened to the roof of his mouth. He grabbed a coke bottle and swallowed. Finally the burning eased and he said: ‘Jaysus.’

  A passing WPC said: ‘Don’t touch the Cornish, Sarge, they’re way past their date.’

  The phone rang and he snatched it: ‘Incident room “E”.’

  ‘Are you investigating the hangings?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘I have some information.’

  ‘Good, that’s good. And your name, sir?’

  ‘To prove I’m legit, check the last victim’s fingers.’

  ‘Might be a tad difficult, mate — sir.’

  ‘Because of the torching? I doubt that would disguise broken fingers. I’ll call back in an hour.’ And the caller hung up.

  Brant was electric, got on to Roberts and the coroner. When Roberts arrived, he told him of the call and of the coroner’s confirmation: ‘The bugger was right, and what’s more, I’ve set up for a trace, he was ringing from a mobile, it kept breaking up. We’ll have him if he calls back.’

  Roberts was impressed, said: ‘I’m impressed.’

  Brant could feel his adrenaline building. It felt like a hit. Roberts took a seat. A picture of calm, he said: ‘Could be the one, the White Arrest.’

  Brant had already raced to the same conclusion, was feeling generous in his victory: ‘For us both, Guv.’

  ‘No, this is all your own, another Rilke, maybe.’

  The phone rang. Brant signalled to the technicians, who gave him the green light, and he picked up: ‘Incident room ‘E’.’

  ‘You checked the fingers?’

  ‘We’re just waiting for confirmation.’

  ‘We’re not criminals, we’re only doing what the courts are failing to do.’

  Roberts made an S motion in the air. Stall.

  ‘Why don’t you come in, we’ll have a chat, work something out.’

  But the caller was on a different track. ‘It wasn’t meant to be like this, you know, not white people. Not that I’m a racist.’

  Brant tried it on. ‘Course you’re not, I mean you live in Brixton, right?’

  Roberts shook his head, signalling U-turn. The caller continued: ‘I don’t think he’ll stop now, he likes it.’

  ‘But you’re different, I can tell. I mean why don’t you and I have a meet?’

  There was static on the line, then a note of panic. ‘Shit, I’ve got to go. I’ll call again.’

  And then the line died. Brant swore, looked pleadingly to the techs. They were engrossed for a moment, then gave the thumbs up, shouted: ‘Got him!’

  Brant punched the air: ‘Yes!’ And a cheer came from the room.

  A technician listened, wrote something down, then handed a piece of paper to Brant. He read aloud: ‘ “Leroy Baker”. Got yer ass, fucker.’ And reached for a phone.

  Roberts was up, saying: ‘Wait, wait — what’s the name?’

  ‘Leroy Baker, we have him.’

  Roberts took his arm, pulled him to the other side of the room, saying: ‘Listen, Tom.’

  ‘Fuck listen, let’s go — we’re on him.’<
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  ‘Tom, the name. It’s the first victim.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s using the guy’s mobile.’

  Brant sank into a chair, muttering: ‘The thieving scumbag, of all the low-down nasty bastards, I’d like five minutes… and he trailed off into silence.

  The room had gone quiet. Roberts said: ‘What’s this, you’ve finished for the day? Get bloody on it!’

  A half-hearted hum began to return, with furtive looks to Brant. Roberts touched his shoulder. ‘C’mon sergeant, I’m going to buy you a drink.’

  Madness more like

  Nineteen-sixty-five. The Umpire had been a cricket sensation. As a schoolboy, he’d already been watched by the England selectors. Provision was made to ensure his talent was nurtured and developed. But…

  If Albert of the ‘E’ crew was missing some vital pieces of human connection and born with a lack, then the Umpire was born with an extra dimension — a dimension of destruction. He liked to watch it burn. On the day of his first schoolboy accomplishments, he set fire to the pavilion. And got caught. His father beat him to a pulp and they put him away in a home for the seriously disturbed. They got that right. What they got wrong was releasing him. His first night home, his father took out all the press cuttings. All the stories of hope and triumph, then proceeded to whip him, ranting: ‘There’ll be no madness in this family.’

  Could you beat insanity? It only drives it underground. Teaches the art of stealth. The first time the Umpire burned a dog, he couldn’t believe the rush, enhanced by such discovery. In his mind the words were etched: ‘See it burn.’

  As the years passed, he began to look on the England team. The fame, publicity, accolades he felt were rightly his. It began to foment in his mind: if he couldn’t have the prizes, why should they? When he read Day of The Jackal he was elated. Then on to The Dogs of War, and as his psychosis came to full bloom he imagined himself to be Shannon, the hero of the book. Later, he thought, Frederick Forsyth would base a book on him.

  Roberts studied the growing pile of paper on the Umpire, said: ‘I’ll get the murderer sooner or later. It’s always simpler when they’re insane.’

  Brant said: ‘That’s a hell of a positive attitude. Way to go, Guv.’

  A selfconscious Roberts blustered: ‘It’s a quote.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Thomas Gomez in Phantom Lady.’

  ‘Those old movies again, Guv, eh? It’s black-and-white, it’s a classic.’

  ‘Don’t be a daft bugger, sergeant. It’s film noir, never better than in the forties and fifties.’

  Brant, already losing interest, answered: ‘You know, Guv.’

  It wasn’t that Brant was an ignoramus, Roberts thought, but that he revelled in ignorance. His sole passion was to win. In his mind he played Robert Mitchum talking to Jane Greer in Out of The Past:

  ‘That’s not the way to play it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  “Cause it isn’t the way to win.’

  ‘Is there a way to win?’

  ‘Well, there’s a way to lose more slowly.’

  ‘Ahhh.’

  ‘Guv. Guv!’ Brant’s harsh tone cut through his movie.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re muttering to yourself. Doesn’t look good.’

  ‘A privilege of rank.’

  Brant was tempted to add: ‘Madness, more like.’ But he’d tested his cheek enough. For now.

  Slag?

  Fiona had arranged a ‘coffee meet’ with Penny, her treat. She’d selected Claridges, to reach for the class she so desperately craved. It would have amused her to learn she shared a musical preference with WPC Falls. As she ordered a double cappuccino with cream, the words of ‘Misguided Angel’ ran through her head. The waiter was in his twenties and had the essential blend of surliness and servility. In short, a London lad. She admired his ass in the tight black pants and felt a flush creep across her chest. Since Jason, she was drenched in heat. He’d fit perfectly into the CA catalogue. The coffee came with all the prerequisites of the hotel. A mountain of serviettes with the Claridges logo, lest you lost your bearings, a bowl of artery-clogging cream and one slim biscuit in an unopenable wrapper. Penny arrived looking downright dowdy. Not a leg away from a bag lady. They exchanged air kisses. No skin was actually touched. Not so much consciousness of the age of AIDs as the fact that they were steeped in pretension.

  Fiona led: ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Don’t I look all right?’

  ‘Well, no… no, you don’t.’

  Penny turned her head, shouted: ‘Waiter, espresso before Tuesday, OK?’

  Fiona cringed. ‘They’re not big on shouting in Claridges. Discretion is such a form that they’d really appreciate you not showing at all. But if you must, then quiet, eh?’

  Penny took a Silk Cut from her purse, said: ‘I’m smoking again, so shoot me.’

  The waiter brought the coffee. No perks with this, just the basic cup and saucer. He waited and Penny snapped: ‘Take a hike, Pedro.’

  He did. Then, no preamble, she launched: ‘The bastard’s leaving after twenty-six years of marriage. He’s off.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘He needs space. Can you believe it, that he’d use that line of crap to me? Everyone’s in therapy and no one’s responsible anymore.’

  ‘You’ll have the house?’

  ‘I’ll have his balls, that’s what I’ll have.’

  Then she rooted in her handbag, produced a boxed Chanel No. 5 and flung it on the table, said: ‘I got you a present.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Sorry it’s not wrapped. Well, it’s not paid for either.’

  ‘I don’t follow’

  ‘I nicked it. That’s what I’m doing these days, roaming the big stores and stealing things I don’t even want. On Monday I took a set of pipes. You wouldn’t prefer a nice briar, would you?’

  ‘No. Oh, Pen, if you need help — ’

  ‘Go into therapy is it? Find my inner child and thrash it?’ She jumped up. ‘I’ll have to go. I’ll call you.’

  And she was gone. It was a few moments before Fiona realised that Penny had pocketed the espresso cup. She gave a deep sigh, thinking: ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’

  But it was. Penny had a major effect on her life. She opened the Chanel, put a bit behind her ears, said: ‘Mmm, that’s class.’

  The leader of the ‘E’ crew, Kevin, was singing at the top of his voice: ‘Tom Traubert’s Blues’, aka ‘Waltzing Matilda’. He was well pissed, empty Thunderbirds strewn at his feet. As the high point of the song touched crescendo, so did Kev. He was right moved to tears at the strength, nay, the majesty of the voice. For Christmas his brother Albert had given him Rod Stewart’s Greatest Hit Ballads, and now aloud he roared: ‘I love this fuckin’ album!’ And cranked open another Thunderbird, near drained it in one gulp. He’d followed Rod from the Small Faces all the way through ‘Killing of Georgie’ parts one and two, and fuck, never mind that Rod was an arrogant arsehole, the fucker could sing like a nicotinized Angel. Now Kev began to dance, to waltz, one two oops three with an imaginary Matilda. She was a combination of all the women he’d never had. Then, as is wont with the booze, it metamorphosed fuckin’ bliss to viciousness in the click of a beat. He stumbled and then pushed the dancing partner away, shouting: ‘Slag!’ Spittle lined his lips as hate fuelled by alcohol propelled him to a dimension where few would wish to be. Kev had done time, hard time. But he’d discovered books and found they provided a brief escape. His all-time hero was Andrew Vachss with the Burke novels. They were Kev’s speed, chock full of righteousness brutality, total vengeance. It never occurred to Kev that the very people Burke pursued were Kevin’s own. Not that he didn’t identify with the pure villains, the twenty-four carat psychos that scared even Burke. Wesley, the monster who signed his suicide note with a threat: ‘I don’t know where I’m going but they better not send anyone after me.’

  Class act. Kev had copi
ed it down, carried it like a prayer of the damned. Damnation was romantic as long as it didn’t hurt. When his brother Albert was born, they left something out, some essential connection that kept him two beats behind. Kevin was his brother and bully. The other two crew members were ciphers, their sole purpose being to fill prisons or football stadiums, and they were partial to both. Go in any bookie’s after the big race, they’re the guys picking up the discarded tickets, the human wallpaper. When God chose the cast, he made them spear carriers. Rage began early in Kev. A series of homes through Borstal to the one where the big boys play. Prison. In Wormwood Scrubs, he was made to bend over by a drug dealer and thus began his lock on their trade. Discovering Burke gave a hint of crusade to his vision and the seeds of vigilantism were sown. The Michael Winner Death Wish series was a revelation. When Bronson eliminated a guy, the audience stood up and cheered. Kev began to see how he could become famous, heroic and use a gun. If he got to settle personal scores, well hell, that was just how the cookie crumbled. The first weapon he got was a replica Colt and he spent hours in front of the mirror striking poses. Mouthing defiance: ‘Bend over! You fucking bend over now… Hey, arsehole… Yeah, you!’ He got Taxi Driver on vid and finally came home. Here was destiny, and in his movie he’d insist George Clooney played him. Get the chicks hot. At times, standing by Brixton tube station, he’s see black guys come past in cars whose names he couldn’t even pronounce. Rap music pouring from the speakers and arrogance on the breeze. He’d grit his teeth and mutter: ‘You’re going down, bad-ass.’ When he got the crew together, he laid it out as a blend of Robin Hood meets Tarantino and how they’d be front page of the Sun. Doug and Fenton didn’t care either way and, if it provided cash, why not? Albert did what Kevin said, as always. The ‘E’ was born and ready to rock ’n’ roll.

  Band aid

  As Brant and Roberts headed for the pub, they passed a urinating wino. Delirium tremens hit him mid-piss and his body did a passable jig. Brant said: ‘A river-dancer.’

  The pub was police-friendly. Meaning if you were a cop, they were friendly, if you weren’t, you got shafted. A blowsy barmaid greeted them: ‘Two officers.’