A White Arrest ib-1

by Ken Bruen

  Rightish! No point even sharing those with Rosie. Why bother? But: ‘Rosie, whatcha think about..?’ And Rosie: ‘Oh God, that’s very ominous.’

  Falls was raging: ‘Ominous? When did you swallow a dictionary?’ That’s it, no more input from Ms Know-it-all.

  The doorbell went and she felt her heart fly. At a guess, more roses. With a grin, she opened the door.

  Not Interflora.

  A bag lady. Well, next best thing. A middle-aged woman who could be kindest described as ‘frumpy’, and you’d be reaching. Her hair was dirt grey, and whatever shade it had been, that was long ago. Falls sighed. The homeless situation was even worse than the Big Issue’s warnings. Now they were making house calls. She geared herself for action: arm lock, a few pounds and the address of the Sally… she’d be history.

  The woman said: ‘Are you WPC Falls, the policewoman?’

  Surprisingly soft voice. The new Irish cultured one of soft vowels and easy lilt, riddled with education.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Nora.’

  Falls tried not to be testy, said: ‘I don’t wish to be rude, but you say it as if it should mean something. It doesn’t mean anything to me.’

  The woman stepped forward, not menacingly, but more as if she didn’t want the world to hear, said: ‘Nora Dillon, Eddie’s wife.’

  Falls had dressed for confrontation. The requisite Reeboks, sweatshirt and pants. She sat primly on her couch, letting Eddie hang himself. First, she’d considered sitting like Ellen Degenes. That sitcom laid-back deal, legs tucked under your butt, yoga-esque. Mainly cool, like tres. But it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Since Dyke City, when Ellen had come out of the closet, was she a role model? ‘We think not,’ said Middle America. So, Eddie arrived with red roses, Black Magic and a shit-eating grin. He’s even quoting some of his poetry. Like this:

  I gave you then

  a cold hello

  and you

  being poorer

  gave me nothing

  nothing at all.

  He was dressed in a tan linen suit with a pair of Bally loafers. His face looked carbolic-shined. He looked like a boy. It tore at her heart. Jesus. Now he was repeating the line for effect: ‘Gave me nothing’. Lingering, slow-lidded look, then: ‘… nothing at all’.

  Eddie looked up, awaiting praise. Falls got to her feet, said, ‘Come here.’

  He smiled, answered, ‘I love it when you’re dominant.’

  He moved right to her, turned his head to kiss her and she kneed him in the balls, said, ‘Rhyme that, you bastard.’

  Dropped to the floor like a bad review. She thought of Brant and what he’d say.

  ‘Finish it off with a kick to the head.’

  Part of her was sorely tempted, but the other half wanted to hug him. Summoning all her resolve, she bent down and grabbed hold of the linen jacket and began to drag him. One of his tan loafers came off. Got him to the door and with the last of her strength, flung him out. Then she gathered up the flowers, the chocolates and the loose shoe, threw them after him. Then she slammed the door, stood with her back against it for a while, then slumped down to a sitting position.

  After a time she could hear him. He tapped on the door and his voice,

  ‘Honey… sweetheart… let me explain…

  Like a child, she put her fingers in her ears. It didn’t fully work: she could still hear his voice but not the sense of the words. It continued for a time then gradually died away. Eventually she moved and got to her feet, said, ‘I’m not going to cry anymore.’

  She had a shower and had it scalding, till her skin screamed SURRENDER. Then she found a grubby track suit and climbed into it. It made her look fat.

  She said, ‘This makes me look fat… good!’

  Opened the door cautiously. No Eddie. Some of the flowers still strewn around clutched at her heart.

  Falls had seen all sorts of things in her police career, but these few flowers appeared to be the very essence of lost hope.

  At the off-licence, she ordered a bottle of vodka and debated a mixer. But no, she’d take it bitter, it was fitting.

  Back home, she drank the vodka from a mug. A logo on the side said: I’m too sexy for my age.

  Bit later she put on Joan Armatrading and wallowed in total delicious torment.

  Near the end of the bottle, she threw the music out of the window.

  End of the evening, she took a hammer to the mug and bust it to smithereens.

  Brant was booted and suited. The flat had been cleaned by a professional firm. They hadn’t actually been paid yet, but assured of ‘police protection’. He was well pleased with their work. The suit was genuine Jermyn Street bespoke. A burglary there had brought Brant to investigate… and pillage. If a look can speak columns, then this suit spoke like royalty. You could sleep in it and have it shout: ‘Hey, is this class or what?’

  It was. The shoes were hand-made Italian loafers and whispered of effortless arrogance. He wore a Police Federation tie, a blotch on any landscape, and a muted shirt. He gazed at himself in the new full-length mirror and was delighted, said: ‘I ain’t half delighted.’ The whole outfit was clarion call to Muggers United till they saw his face, and rethought: ‘Maybe not.’

  He took his bleeper in case the ‘E’ rang. He needed access. A genuine Rolex completed the picture. Alas, it was so real it appeared a knock-off and supplied a badly needed irony to his whole appearance. He said aloud: ‘Son, you are hot.’ As he left he slammed his new steel-reinforced door with gusto.

  It’s been heard in south-east London that ‘a copper’s lot is a Volvo’. Brant was no exception. He found it a distinct advantage to have a recognisable cop issue. Saved it from being nicked. Others said: ‘Who’d bloody want it?’ As he unlocked his car, a few drops of rain fell. He said: ‘Shit.’ And remembered his old man one time, saying: ‘Ah! Soft Irish rain.’ His mother’s reply: ‘Soft Irish men, more like.’

  A woman approached, dressed respectably, which revealed absolutely nothing. Not to Brant. She said: ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I hate to trouble you, but my car’s broken down and I’m without change. I need three, perhaps four pounds to get a cab.’

  ‘You need a new line, lady.’

  And he got into the Volvo. She watched him, astonishment writ large, and as he pulled away, she said clearly: ‘Cunt.’

  He laughed out loud. The night had begun well.

  ‘Tooling up’

  ‘Tonight… tonight… tonight… we go… oh yeah.’ On the floor, he’d spread a tarpaulin, and now JL began to lay weapons down: two sawn-offs, one canister of CS gas, three baseball bats and a mess of handguns.

  He looked to his brother first, said: ‘OK, Albert, pick yer poison.’ Al took a handgun, tested it for weight, and then jammed it in the back of his jeans. Kev whistled: ‘Very fucking cool. Mind how you sit down.’

  He snatched the sawn-offs and chucked them to Doug and Fenton, said: ‘’Cos you guys are a blast.’

  He took the handguns and, holding them down by his sides, added: ‘No need for the bats, eh? This is purely a shooting party’ Albert smiled, thought of the gun he’d looted. Now he’d be truly loaded.

  Fiona Roberts knew her marriage was bad, and often woesome. But she was determined to keep it. If it meant lying down with the dogs… or dog, then she’d suffer the fleas. She wasn’t sure how to dress for a blackmail date. Did you go mainline hooker or bag lady? A blend of the two perhaps. When Brant had said he wished to ‘woo’ her, she’d nearly laughed in his pig face. But instinct had held her tongue and she knew she could maybe turn everything round. So she agreed, he was to pick her up at Marble Arch. Ruefully she reflected it was a hooker’s landmark. A cab took her there and, as she paid the fare, the driver said: ‘Bit cold for it, luv.’

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your implication. I don’t think I know what you are saying.’

  ‘Get a grip, darlin’.
I didn’t mean nuffink unless civility has been outlawed.’

  ‘Hmmph!’

  She slammed the door and he took off with her tenner.

  Brant was turning into the Arch with the radio blaring. Chris Rea was doing ‘Road to Hell’ and Brant hoped it wasn’t an omen. He stopped, flung open the door, shouted: ‘Hiya, ducks!’

  She’d been expecting the Volkswagen Golf, but realised he’d keep her on the hop. As she got in she saw him eying her legs but refrained from comment. Without a word he did a U-turn and swung back towards Bayswater. A highly dangerous move.

  She said: ‘Illegal, surely?’

  ‘That’s part of the rush.’

  She smoothed her dress over her legs and he asked: ‘Hungry?’

  ‘Why, have you another greasy spoon to slum in?’

  ‘Hey!’ And he gave her a look. She could have sworn he appeared hurt and she thought: ‘Good.’

  He swerved to avoid a cyclist and said quietly: ‘I’ve booked at Bonetti’s.’

  She didn’t say anything, and he added: ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what? I have never heard of it.’

  ‘It’s in the Egon Ronnie.’

  ‘Ronnie? That’s Ronay.’

  ‘Whatever, I thought you’d be pleased.’

  And she was, kind of.

  Roberts got the call before six. ‘Chief Inspector Roberts, is that you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  This is Governor Brady, over Pentonville.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘I have a chappie on B wing, might be of interest to you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You are still in charge of the Umpire investigation, aren’t you?’ A note of petulance crept in as he added: ‘I mean you are interested in solving the cricket business?’

  ‘Of course, absolutely. I’m sorry, it’s been a long day.’

  ‘Try a day in the Ville sometime.’

  Roberts wanted to shout: ‘Get on with it, fuckhead,’ but he knew the butter approach was vital, and with a trowel, said: ‘You do a terrific job there, Governor, it can’t be easy.’

  ‘That’s for sure.’

  ‘So, this man you’ve got, you think he might be our boy?’

  ‘He says he is.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Came in yesterday on a GBH. We had to stick him on B because of his psychotic behaviour.’

  ‘Might I come see?’

  ‘I’ll be waiting.’

  When Roberts put down the phone, he didn’t feel any hope. They were up to their asses in Umpires, all nutters and all bogus. But he’d have to check it out.

  As Brant parked the car, he said: ‘This Volvo is like my ex.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Too big and too heavy.’

  ‘Gosh, I wonder why she left you.’

  The maitre d’ made a fuss of them, placed them at the best table, said: ‘Always glad to be of service to our police.’

  Fiona sighed. The restaurant was near full and a hum of conversation carried. Two huge menus were brought. She said: ‘You order.’

  ‘Okey-dokey.’

  A young waiter danced over and gave them a smile of dazzling fellowship. Brant asked: ‘What’s the joke, pal?’

  ‘Scusi?’

  ‘Jeez, another wop. Give us a minute, will yer?’ A less hearty withdrawal from the waiter. Fiona said: ‘You have such magnetism.’

  ‘That’s me all right.’ Then he clicked his fingers, said: ‘Yo, Placedo!’ And ordered thus: starters, prawn cocktails; main, marinated Tweed salmon with cucumber salad and a pepper steak, roast and jacket potatoes; dessert, pecan sponge pie with marmalade ice-cream; wine, three bottles of Chardonnay.

  The waiter looked astonished and Brant said: ‘Hey wake up, Guiseppe, it won’t come on its own.’

  Fiona didn’t know what to say said: ‘I dunno what to say.’

  ‘Yer man, light on his feet I’d say.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘An arse bandit, one of them pillow biters.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  The food began to arrive, and the first bottle of wine. Brant poured freely, raised his glass, said: ‘A toast.’

  ‘Good heavens.’

  ‘That too.’

  She was glad of the alcohol and drank full, asked: ‘Do you hate my husband so much?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You must do. I mean, all this.’

  ‘He’s a good copper and straight. This isn’t to do with him.’

  ‘Why, then? Surely it’s not just a fuck.’

  He winced at her obscenity, put his glass down slowly, then said: ‘It’s about class. I never had none. You have it. I thought it might rub off.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘You wouldn’t kill me in cold blood, would you?’ ‘No, I’ll let you warm up a little.’ Paul Guilfoyle and James Cagney, White Heat

  He spooned the prawn cocktail as if it contained secrets, then looked her straight in the eye, began: ‘I think I was born angry and there was plenty to be pissed about. We had nowt. Then I became a copper and guess what?’ She hadn’t a clue but he wasn’t expecting an answer, continued: ‘I mellowed ’cos I got respect at last. It felt like I was somebody. Me and Mike Johnson. He was me best mate, Mickey, bought the act even more than I did. Believed yer public could give a toss about us. One night he went to sort out a domestic, usual shit, old man beating the bejaysus out of his missus. Mickey got him up against the wall, we were putting the cuffs on him, when the wife laid him out with a rolling pin.’ Brant laughed out loud, heads turned, he repeated: ‘A bloody rolling pin, like a bad joke.’

  ‘Was he hurt?’

  ‘He was after they castrated him.’

  Fiona dropped her spoon, said: ‘Oh, good grief.’

  ‘Good don’t come into it. See, you gotta let ’em see you’re the most brutal fuckin’ thing they’ve ever seen. They come quiet then.’ Brant was deep in memory, even his wine was neglected.

  ‘My missus. I loved her but I couldn’t let ‘er know. Couldn’t go soft, know what I mean? Else I’d end up singing soprano like old Mickey.’

  Whatever Fiona might have said, could have said, was averted. Brant’s bleeper went off, he said: ‘Fuck,’ and went to use the phone. A few moments later, he was back. ‘There’s heat going on in Brixton, I gotta go.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He rummaged in his pockets, dumped a pile of notes on the table, said: ‘I’ve called a cab for you, you stay, finish the grub,’ and then he was gone. Fiona wanted to weep. For whom or why, she wasn’t sure, but a sadness of infinity had shrouded her heart.

  As Brant approached the car, his mind was in a swirl of pain through memory. He’d let his guard down, and now he struggled to regain the level of aggression that was habitual. As a mantra, he mouthed Jack Nicholson’s line from A Few Good Men: ‘The truth, you can’t handle the truth — I eat breakfast every day, four hundred yards from Cubans who want to kill me.’ For a moment he was Jack Nicholson, shoving it loud into the face of Tom Cruise.

  It worked. The area of vulnerability began to freeze over, and the smile, slick in its satanic knowledge, began to form. He said: ‘I’m cookin’ now, mister.’ And he was. As the Volvo lurched towards south-east London, Nicholson’s lines fired on: ‘You come down here in your faggoty white uniforms, flash a badge and expect me to salute.’

  Last train to Clarkesville

  As Roberts was resigning himself to a haul to Pentonville, the phone rung again. He considered ignoring it, but finally said: ‘Damn and blast,’ and picked it up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is that the police?’

  ‘Yes.’(very testy)

  ‘This is the nursing sister at St Thomas’.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if I’m being fanciful, but we have a man here who… I don’t know how to say this.’

  Roberts exhaled loudly and said: ‘You have the cricket murderer, am I right?’ He could hear her amazement and it was a moment before
she could say: ‘Yes. Yes, at least it might be.’

  Roberts couldn’t contain his sarcasm, said: ‘Confessed, did he?’

  ‘Not exactly, no. A man was brought in after being hit by a bus, and in his sleep, he was shouting things that were peculiar.’

  Roberts felt he had been hit by a bus himself, said wearily: ‘I’ll get someone over there toot sweet.’

  ‘Toot what?’

  ‘Soon, sister, OK?’

  ‘All right, I’ll expect you.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  And he rung off. He rooted in his pocket, took out a coin, said: ‘Heads the ’Ville, tails the other monkey.’

  Flipped it high.

  It was heads.

  Officers had blocked off Electric Avenue. Brant could see armed officers lining up along the roofs. Falls came running, said: ‘You got my call?’

  ‘I owe you, babe. Is this what I think it is?’

  ‘Someone reported a barrage of shots and a local PC went to investigate. He narrowly escaped having his head shot off.’ Brant approached the officer in charge, said: ‘I think I know who’s inside. What’s the status?’

  ‘A bloody shambles. We know it’s a dope pad, and four white men were seen going in. Then the shooting started. Nobody’s come out. We have a negotiator on the way and we are trying to set up a phone link.’

  Brant turned and said to Falls: ‘Watch this.’

  Before anyone could react, he walked across the street and into the building. The scene-of-crime guy exclaimed: ‘What the hell?’

  Brant made no effort to sneak up the stairs, but walked loudly, turned into a dimly lit corridor. The smell of cordite was thick, and something else, the smell of blood.

  Kev was slouched against a wall, his legs spread out. He held a gun in each hand, not aimed but lying loosely on his chest. He was covered in blood.

  Brant said: ‘Shop!’

  A lazy smile from Kev, then: ‘You should’ve seen it, mate. We got in and told the fucks not to move. You know what they did?’

  ‘They moved?’

  ‘Started bleedin’ shouting. At me brother, he got it in the neck. And Doug, well, he got it everywhere. I dunno about Fenton, I kinda lost him in the excitement.’