by Ken Bruen
Brant smiled and said: ‘My kind of woman.’
‘Friendly?’ said Roberts.
‘No, big tits.’
Roberts ordered two pints of best and Brant added: ‘Two chasers, Glenfiddich preferably.’
Roberts said: ‘Cheers.’
‘Whatever.’
‘You know, Tom, we should do this more often.’
‘We’ve never done it before.’
‘Oh, are you sure?’
‘I’m positive, Guv.’
‘Hey, Tom, no need for that here, we’re not standing on rank.’
But he did not offer an alternative. Brant sank the short, said to the barmaid: ‘Maisie, same again.’
‘That’s her name?’
‘Is now.’
Four drinks passed. Roberts offered: ‘You’re a single man now.’
‘That’s me.’
‘No kids.’
‘None that I’ve admitted to.’
Six drinks later, Brant’s turn: ‘You and yer missus, Guv, doing all right?’
‘Well, she’s doing something, not that she tells me, mind.’
Eight drinks later, Roberts: ‘I think I’m pissed.’
‘Naw, it’s early yet.’
Closing time. Roberts: ‘Fancy a curry? I could murder a chapati.’
‘Yeah, let’s get a carryout. Molly!’
‘I thought she was Maisie.’
‘Naw, it’s Molly, they’re always Mollies.’
Midnight.
Sitting outside the pub attempting red hot curry, Brant said: ‘D’ya want to kip at my place?’
A passing bobby stopped, said: ‘What’s all this then?’
It took Roberts a few moments to focus, then he slurred: ‘Yer bloody nicked, son.’
When Brant finally got home he was beginning to sober up. A foul taste on his mouth, he blamed it on the early Cornish pasty. He never blamed whisky. His sobriety was sealed when he saw the door of his flat off its hinges. He roared: ‘Bastards! Not to me, not ever!’
The living room was destroyed. Ripped and gutted photos. But his beloved book collection: the McBains were shredded, the delicate Penguin covers torn to pieces. Piled on top were remnants of Matthew Hope and Evan Hunters. To cap it, urine had been sprayed all over. Tears blinded him and a sob-whisper: ‘Yah fuckin’ animals.’
He ran to the bedroom, tried to ignore the used condom on his pillow, went deep into his dirty laundry, extracted a bundle of undies, roared in triumph: ‘Ah, yah stupid bastards,’ extracted a Browning automatic, fully loaded, shoved it in the waistband of his trousers and stalked out. Left the door as it was, said: ‘Daddy’s gone a-hunting.’
Brant’s shoulder took the door off the basement flat. He felt that was poetic justice at the very least. Inside, the occupant began to rise from bed. But Brant was over and kneeling on his chest within seconds, saying: ‘Sorry to disrupt your sleep, Rodney.’
‘Mr Brant, oh God. Mr Brant, what’s going on?’
‘Someone turned my gaff, Rodders, someone very bloody stupid, and by lunch today you’ll have their names for me, else I’ll move in with you.’
‘Your gaff, Mr Brant? No one would have the bottle, unless it were junkies, yes, has to be, they don’t know from shit.’
‘The names, Rod, by lunchtime. Am I clear?’
He let his full weight settle and Rodders gasped, then managed: ‘OK Mr Brant, OK.’
Brant got up, asked: ‘Got any aspirin? My head is splittin’.’
As he left, Rodney asked: ‘My door, Mr Brant, who’s gonna see about that?’
Brant looked at it with apparently huge interest, then said: ‘Don’t leave it like this, it’s a bloody open invitation, know what I mean?’
Rodney rang Brant at 11.50, said: ‘I found the geezers who done yer, Guv.’
‘Yeah?’
‘They’re junkies, like I said. A guy and his girlfriend. Yer own crowd as it happens.’
‘What, they’re coppers you mean?’
Rodney didn’t know if this required a polite laugh. Brant’s humour was more lethal than his temper. He decided to play it straight, said: ‘Ahm, like Micks, you know, Oirish. But they’ve been here a bit so they speak a mix of Dublin and London.’
‘So where do I find these cultural ambassadors?’
‘They have a pitch at the Elephant and Castle, in the tunnels there. He sits and she begs.’
‘How Job Centre-ish, eh?’
Rodney felt sweat gather on his brow. Any dealings with Brant had this effect. He hoped to terminate the call with: ‘They’re easily recognisable as they wear a band aid under the left eye.’
‘Why?’
‘Fuck knows.’
‘OK Rodders, you done good. Stay in touch.’
‘Definitely’
And he put the phone down. His heart was whacking in his chest. However bad he felt, he knew it was way beyond what a set of junkies would soon be experiencing. But he shrugged it off, saying: ‘For all I know, they’re Ben Elton fans.’
Brant found them in jig time. Sure enough they were in the tunnels, begging and band-aided.
Unlikely lad
The man was sitting on a blanket and the woman was pacing. They had the uniform intimidation: combat jackets, Doc Martens and an air of menace. No dog, surprisingly. Brant looked up and down. Nobody about. He kept his head down and walked up to them, giving the London look of cowardly expectation. He saw the woman smile as she moved to block his path, whining: ‘Few bob for a cup o’ tea, mistah?’
As he drew level, he swung round and smashed his shoe into the man’s face, then whirled and ran her into the wall. Checking again for onlookers, he then pushed her down beside the man. A symphony of shocked groans came from them: ‘Whatcha do dat for, ya cunt?’
‘Ah…
Brant hunkered down. Grabbed the man by the hair, said: ‘What’s with the bandages, dudes?’
The man was hurt but still managed to look amazed: ‘What?’
‘The Band Aids Bros, what’s the deal?’
‘’Cos if I’m cut, she bleeds.’
Brant smiled and lashed out with his open palm into the woman’s face, said: ‘Hey, pay attention.’
She tried to spit, then asked: ‘Whatcha pickin’ on us for, mistah? We dun nothing to youse.’
He banged their heads together as a man entered the tunnel. Brant said: ‘You turned over a gaff, the wrong one, believe me. Now you have two days to compensate me for the damage, or I am talking major hurt. I’ll leave it to you guys to figure out how much it should be. Else… well, I’ll come looking for you.’
The man drew level and asked: ‘Anything wrong here?’ Brant stood up, said: ‘Naw, I’m doing a survey on urban deprivation.’
The man peered at the battered couple, said: ‘Good Lord, they’re bleeding.’
‘Yeah, but see, they have band aids, that should do it.’ As Brant strolled off, he calculated the pair’s collective age at about sixty. They had the air of a hundred and sixty.
Never-no-mind, he thought. Like all junkies, they’d been dead for years, the news just hadn’t reached their fried brains yet.
Shannon watched the cricket story fade from page one to back towards the horoscopes. His story! But unlike the ‘E’ outfit, he didn’t get angry. Time was on his side and he knew how to instantly pull it back. He’d been to military shops on the Strand and quite openly bought a crossbow.
The proprietor had said: ‘Alas, I’ve only three arrows.’
The Umpire smiled, said: ‘Then thrice shall I smite them.’
The proprietor couldn’t give a toss if he answered in Arabic, said: ‘Whatever.’ And he put the goods in a M amp;S bag, warning: ‘Careful how you handle ’em,’ and pocketed the money.Now the Umpire dry-tested the bow and found it slack. He tightened and tested for over an hour till it gave a taut zing. He couldn’t believe how easy it had been to kill his second cricketer. At the very least, he’d expected a uniform on the beat. But zip, nada, tipota.
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When he’d begun his crusade, he found most of the team addresses in the phone book. That strengthened his conviction and zeal. Three of them with south-east London homes. Better and better. The sheer power of the bolts enthralled him. As he saw the wicket-keeper stumble down the steps, he felt exhilaration. But cunning ruled. He quickly put the weapon in the M amp;S bag and simply walked away. Shannon began to reemerge as the two personalities roared: ‘Cry havoc and let loose the dogs of war.’
PC Tone was what used to be called a raw youth. He didn’t have acne but it was close. At twenty-three years of age, he looked seventeen. Not a big advantage in south-east London. But he had four O-levels and one A-level. The changing Met looked at exams, not faces. When Brant first clapped eyes on him, he’d said: ‘For fucksake.’
Tone worshipped the Sergeant. The rep of violence, rebellion and fecklessness was irresistible. That Brant despised him didn’t cool his devotion since Brant seemed to despise everyone. Tone figured if he could attach himself to Brant, he’d learn the real method of policing. Not an easy task, as most times he was told: ‘Piss off boy’ Until this morning.
He’d been summoned, so to speak. Brant was in the canteen, wolfing down a glazed doughnut. The only person to have his own drinking vessel, even the brass got plastic cups. His was a large chipped mug with Rambo on the side. A logo read: I’m a gas. But the g had faded. Brant gave a big smile, particles of sugar in his teeth, said: ‘Have a seat, boyo.’
Tone was 6’1” and awkward. Roger McGough might have used him for the PC Plod poems. He had his hair cut short and gelled. His face was made up of regular features and his whole demeanour suggested ‘unlikely lad’.
He sat.
Brant gave him a full look, then asked: ‘Tea or coffee, boyo?’
‘Ahm, tea, I think.’
Brant snorted: ‘Well, it won’t come to you lad, hop up there and gis a refill, two sugars.’
The canteen lady, named Doris, gave Tone a wink, said: ‘Watch ’im.’
When he returned, Brant said: ‘Lovely job’, and took a gulp, went: ‘Jaysus you never stirred it.’
Which was true. Then he took out his Weights, said: ‘I’d offer you one but it’s a smoke-free zone,’ and lit up. Tone tasted his tea. It was like coffee or turpentine or a cunning blend of both. Brant leaned over, asked: ‘Do you want to get on, boyo, eh? Are you ambitious?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good, that’s good. I have a little job for you.’
‘I’m ready, sir.’
‘Course you are, a fine strappin’ youth like you. You’ll sire legions.’
‘Sir?’
‘Now, there’s two dossers, male and female. In their late twenties. They have their pitch in the Elephant and Castle tunnels. They wear band aids on their faces. I want their names, their squat, who they run with, any previous. Got that?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Well, don’t hang about lad, get crackin’.’
Tone stood up, perplexed, then: ‘But sir… Why? Have they done owt? What’s the reason?’
Brant held up a hand, palm outward: ‘Whoah, Sherlock, hold yer water. The reason is I asked you — d’ya follow?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s the job, and oh, Tome…
‘Tone, sir. It’s an ‘n’.’
‘Whatever. Mum’s the word, eh?’
When the constable had gone, Brant said, and not quietly: ‘Fuckin’ maggot.’
Room mate? A hammering likely to wake the very dead
Falls was dreaming of her father when the hammering began at her door. Awakening, she checked the time, 3.30am, and heard in disbelief: ‘Open up, this is the police.’
Throwing on a robe, she went to the door and opened it on the safety chain. Brant.
‘What the —?’
‘I bring you greetings.’
She could smell the wave of liquor and he looked demented. She said: ‘Sergeant, this is hardly an appropriate hour.’
‘I need a kip.’
And she figured: ‘Pay up time.’
Before she could protest, he said: ‘Don’t be a cow. I’ve been turned over. I’ll sleep on the couch.’
Reluctantly, she opened the door. He slouched in, muttering: ‘McBain, Hunter, all done in.’
‘Your friends?’
And he gave what she could only describe as a cackle and said: ‘Friends? Yes, yes. I believe they were, and better than most.’ He flopped down on the couch, said: ‘Jay-sus, I need some sleep. Get the light would you?’ And within minutes he was snoring. She got a blanket from her bed and as she put it over him she saw the gun in his waistband. Afraid he’d do damage, she reached for it, only to have her wrist seized. He said: ‘Don’t handle my weapon.’
As she tried to regain her sleep, she wished: ‘Hope he shoots his balls off.’
Falls prided herself on the flat being a ‘smoke free zone’. Even her old dad, no matter how pissed, never had the bottle to light his ‘home-mades’ there. Now she woke to the stench of nicotine, clouds of it hung in the air. Storming out to the living room, she found Brant wrapped in her best towel, a cigarette dangling on his lips. He said: ‘Breakfast’s made. Well, sort of. I’ve boiled the water. Whatcha fancy, coffee all right?’
‘No thank you, I’m a tea drinker.’
As she went into the kitchen, he observed: ‘Jay-sus, you’ve got a big arse, haven’t you?’
The kitchen was a ruin. Used cups, stained teatowels, opened jars left everywhere. He strolled in after her, asked: ‘How’d it go then?’
‘What?’
‘The funeral.’
‘Oh. Great. No, I mean OK, it was small.’
‘He was a small man, eh?’
She glared at him: ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’
‘Did Roberts go?’
‘Yes, him and Mrs Roberts.’
‘Ah, the lovely Fiona. I could ride that.’
She slammed a cup on the sink, said:
‘Really, Sergeant. Are you trying to be deliberately offensive?’ He gave a look of near-innocence.
‘Me? Listen babe, don’t get yer knickers in a twist, this is my good side.’
She looked at him with distaste, said: ‘Your chin is bleeding.’
He wiped at it with an end of the towel, her favourite white fluffy one, said: ‘Them lady razors, near tore the face offa me.’
Another item for the bin, she sighed. He stood up, said: ‘I need to ask your… co-operation.’
‘Oh?’
‘If certain items — shall we say information — about the big cases, arrive, I’d appreciate a nod before it gets to Roberts.’
‘I don’t know, Sarge, I mean…
‘C’mon Falls. I’m not asking much. He’ll be informed. Eventually.’ Without another word, he went into the sitting room, dressed, and presented himself, asking: ‘How do I look?’
‘Er…
‘Yeah, I thought so. I’ve got to go chat to a junkie.’
She felt she’d been a tad cold, nay harsh, and tried to pull back a bit. In the hall, she said in a soft voice: ‘Sarge, thanks for not, you know, trying it on.’
‘Hey, I don’t jump the help, OK.’
Roberts had watched a documentary on Francis Bacon. He especially liked Bacon’s cry when he entered a club in Soho: ‘Champagne for my real friends. Real pain for my sham friends’. He was about to experience some major pain himself. The Chief Super was having more than a piece of Roberts’ hide and kept repeating: ‘I’m not the type to say “I told you so”.’
He was crowing over the ‘solution’ to the cricket murder. Roberts was seething, said quietly: ‘Oh, it’s been solved?’
‘Don’t take that tone with me, laddie. It’s solved as far as we’re concerned.’
Roberts wanted to shout: ‘Fuck you, sir, fuck the brass and the chain of command and the politicians.’ But he said: ‘If you say so, sir.’
‘I do say so. Our American cousins talk about bottom feeders. A
re you cognizant with it?’
‘Bottom of the shit pile, sir, would that be close?’
‘Brant, now he’s a good example. Look here.’ And he threw a document across the desk, said: ‘The yard have been on to me. Your precious Detective Sergeant is accused of bribe-taking by a Mr Patel, of intimidation by a tobacconist in the West End, of brutality by an accused rapist, of freebies by a pizza company… the list goes on.’
Roberts barely glanced at it, said: ‘Nickel and dime. He’s a good copper.’
‘He’s finished, that’s what he is. I doubt even a cream arrest could save him.’
‘That’s white, sir. A White Arrest.’
‘Are you sure? Well, I want to ensure he doesn’t pull off one of those. So you’re back in charge of the vigilante business. See it’s put to bed quickly.’
‘Put to bed, sir?’
‘Get on with it, and I’ll remind you of thin ice yourself, questions have been asked before.’
With that he was dismissed. Outside he ran his finger along the rim of his ear. A passing WPC asked: ‘All right, sir, your ear I mean?’
‘Oh yeah, I’ve just had a flea put in it.’
The law of holes: when you’re in one, don’t dig
All hell erupted at the station as the news of the murder broke. The Super charged down the corridor, barged into Roberts’ office, roared: ‘You’re in for it now, laddy, there’s been another one.’
Roberts wanted to say, ‘I told you so’, but instead came running, said: ‘Someone surprise me, tell me Brant is here and reachable.’ Nobody surprised him.
The down-scaled ‘U’ incident room was activated and Roberts was given the details of the killing. He asked: ‘Any witnesses?’
‘No, sir.’
‘The weapon?’
‘A crossbow, Guv.’
‘Bloody hell. Wait until the press get wind of this.’
Silence.
‘What, they’re on to it already?’
‘Sorry, Guv.’
‘Holy shit, we’re fucked. So no chance of containment, the ol’ damage limitation?’
