by Ken Bruen
Jeez, what a rush. During the televised final, regardless of who the teams actually were, Tommy would shout, ‘C’mon Mayo’.
While this would have been much appreciated in Mayo, it tended to confuse elsewhere. Tommy made his pile with crack cocaine. Got right into the very bases and wielded intimidation from the off. Knowing no limits, he grew into major league.
Bill Preston had been top of the south-east for a decade and when he took off, Tommy was next in line. His motto was:
The only good witness is a dead witness.
And his lack of jail time proved it. On the climb up, Tommy learned about care, caution, planning, and the best solicitors.
Front everything.
Hide
Hide
Hide
Start a company daily and muddle your tracks. A high profile led to heat and Tommy was beginning to appreciate the value of stealth. His one major weakness was his temper. He hadn’t yet learned to control it. Tony Roberts was proof of that.
Wake up
The Roebuck had, as Brant predicted, laid on a ‘grand spread’. Mountains of sandwiches. Cocktail sausages, nicely burnt. Lashings of tea, soup and, of course, plenty of booze.
Roberts was holding a cup of tea; he hadn’t tasted it. Falls prepared a plate of food, brought it over. He shook his head, she urged, ‘They’re very good, sir, try one of those lads.’
‘No … thank you.’
Brant came over, nodded to Falls, and she backed off. Brant took the tea from Roberts, put a glass there instead, said, ‘It’s Irish, kick like a bastard.’
‘OK, Tom.’
The others looked round.
Tom!
It never occurred to them Brant had a Christian name. His expression told them they best forget it. PC McDonald was a tall blond Scot. Falls might have felt an attraction if he wasn’t so … smug. He was wolfing down food and she asked, ‘Missed breakfast?’
He gave her a glorious smile. It was a winner, he’d been told and often made women weak at the knees. She said, ‘You’re the rising star.’
Now he was modest, toned down the smile wattage, said, ‘I got lucky.’
‘Word has it you’ll get Brant’s stripes.’
‘Oh I dunno, would I be up to his rep’?’
Now Falls treated him to her smile. All teeth and absolutely no warmth, said, ‘You’ve got that right.’
He grabbed a napkin, carefully wiped his mouth, and she thought, Uh-oh, all the moves.
He touched her arm, said, ‘When we’re done here, I wonder would you like to come back to my place?’
‘When we’re done here-you mean scoffed the food, then we’ll scarper?’ He decided to play, prove he could be a fun guy, said, ‘Yeah … sound good?’
She moved his hand away, asked, ‘And back there we’d do what exactly?’ The full smile now.
‘Oh, something will come up, eh?’
She looked full at his crotch, said, ‘If we waited for that to come up, we’d be here all week.’ And moved away.
McDonald considered following but then grabbed another sandwich, muttered, ‘Cold cunt.’
Brant and Roberts had moved to a table, a line of empty shot glasses on the counter. Roberts said, ‘God, that’s a strong drink.’
‘Aye, takes the edge off.’
They laughed at that notion. The drink hasn’t been invented that keeps the edge off. Still, they’d enjoy the reprise.
Brant asked, ‘What the medical examiner say, guv?’
Roberts had to shake himself, focus on where he was, said, ‘That he’d been beaten with a stick … maybe a club, broke every bone in his body. A systematic beating was how he described it. Took a while. Took a while.’
They digested that, then Roberts asked, ‘What d’ya think, a baseball job?’
‘Could be a hurley, guv.’
Roberts nodded, then, ‘I know who did it.’
‘Jesus, guv, are you serious?’
‘Tony told me before he died.’
‘And you haven’t told anybody.’
Roberts raised an eyebrow, said, ‘I’m telling you.’ And he did.
When he was finished, Brant whistled, said, ‘This is what they call synchronicity, I think.’
‘What?’
‘Sting had a song about it … well he would, wouldn’t he? You know, like coincidence.’
Roberts was lost, said, ‘I’m lost.’
Brant was almost excited. ‘Guv, I’ve a new informant and guess who he says is the new kid on the block?’
Now Roberts gave a bleak smile. ‘Mr Logan?’
‘Bingo!’
Roberts stood up, swayed and Brant asked, ‘We’re going to get him now?’
‘Oh no, that’s something I want to do properly. I want to savour it. I’m going to get some more of that Irish.’
Brant sat back, said, ‘That’s the spirit, guv.’
Private investigation
Rosie, a WPC, was Falls’ best friend. When she heard of Falls’ new assignment, she snorted: ‘They had me on that.’
‘What?’ Rosie laughed.
‘Did the Super tell you he’d picked you specially.’
Falls was mortified, considered lying but thought, What the hell? Said, ‘Yeah, he gave me that whole crock.’
‘Set you up in Clapham?’
‘Uh-oh.’
‘Girl, they’re shitting you, when there were three victims, they weren’t sure he specifically targeted black women, so they put my white ass on the line. I hung out in clubs, pubs till my Jack said he’d get a divorce.’
‘Did you talk to the victims?’
‘Honey, they’re black … are they gonna open up to a white girl-a white po-lees girl? Sure, where you been girl?’
As she spoke, she realised, and tried to counter, ‘Oh gawd, I mean … I’m a stupid cow, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK. Anything else?’
‘Well, they got in a profiler … just like the telly. He said the attacker was a white male in his thirties and that the violence would escalate. It has. He used the knife last time almost as if he were working up to a kill.’
She shuddered and said, ‘Don’t do it girl, say you’re not completely recovered.’
Falls gave her the look and Rosie said, ‘Please be extra careful.’
‘I will, I promise, so there.’
‘You know that rape is about hate, not sex.’
‘I read the report.’
‘Oh … and here’s you lettin’ me prattle on. Then you know about the garlic.’
‘What?’
‘All the victims mentioned his breath stank of it.’
‘Gee, that should narrow it down. We can eliminate all young males with fresh breath.’
‘Of which, in the whole of London, there’s probably five.’
‘Five percent?’
‘No, just five.’
Falls thought about Brant, then asked, ‘Do I look different to you Rosie?’
‘You mean … since?’
‘Yeah.’
‘A little quieter.’
‘Do I look … mean?’
Rosie hugged her, said, ‘You always looked mean.’
Lodged
McDonald was summoned to the Super’s office. When he got inside, the Super came to shake his hand, did the Masonic bit. The Super sat and said, ‘Take a pew son.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘You set for bigger things?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But we must be seen to go through the motions. Are you with me?’
‘Absolutely, sir, one hundred per cent.’
‘That’s the ticket. Did you know Scots are the back-bone of the force?’
He didn’t, said, ‘No, sir.’
‘Oh yes. Now the Irish are … what’s the word, too…
‘Rough?’
‘Well yes, actually I was going to say Celtic.’
Time for some brass humour. He said, ‘Naturally you’d be a Rangers man.’<
br />
‘Rugby League, sir.’
And they took a moment to savour their wee pleasantries. Then, ‘You’ll be watching out for the black woman, when she’s on decoy.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘No need to over-do it, we don’t expect a result. Keep her outta mischief eh?’
‘Very good, sir.’
Now, time for the real bones. The Super leant over the desk, said, ‘DS Brant continues to be an embarrassment.’
McDonald waited.
‘If you were to perhaps, notice some infringement … you’d be doing your duty to … let me know.’
‘I’d be honoured, sir.’
‘Good man, capital … see you anon.’
When McDonald got outside, he took a moment to gather himself. Near jumped when a finger touched his shoulder.
Brant. Who said, ‘Bit edgy boyo.’
Edgy, he was stunned, tried to recover, said feebly, ‘Oh you know how it is when you get a roasting.’
Brant was eyeballing him, said, ‘Oh? Got a bollockin’ did ya?’
‘Yes, sarge … yes I did.’
Brant slapped him on the shoulder, said, ‘Well, keep you outta mischief.’
‘What?’
‘Good man, capital, see you anon.’
Check up
Roberts had been diagnosed with skin cancer. For eighteen months, he’d undergone radiation therapy. The treatment left him bone weary and with a mega thirst. Being a policeman had the same effect. Now, he was in the doctor’s surgery awaiting results of a checkup.
The doctor was at his desk doing medical stuff and looking grim. Which told him zilch. Finally, the doctor asked, ‘Do you smoke?’
‘What?’
‘It’s not a difficult question.’
Roberts thought, Oh ch-err-ist, what have I now?
‘No I don’t.’
‘Good man. Don’t start.’
‘What?’
The doctor smiled, not a pretty sight, said, ‘Though on this occasion, you might indulge in a small celebratory cigar.’
‘I’m OK?’
‘Yes, you are and, with care, there’s no reason you shouldn’t live another six months.’
When he saw Roberts face, he said, ‘Just kidding, a little medical levity. How often do I get to deliver good news?’
Roberts couldn’t quite take it in, had lived with bad luck, bad news, for so long, asked again, ‘And I’m OK?’
‘Just stay outta the sun.’
‘In England … a tall order.’ Now they both laughed. A weather joke always broke the ice.
On his way out, Roberts said, ‘Thank you. I’ll do my damnest now to stop the malpractice suit.’
‘What?’
‘Just kidding, doc.’
After Roberts had left, the doctor lit a cigarette and hoped to hell it was a joke. You never could tell with cops.
Roberts said to Brant, ‘Let me get those, I’d some good news today.’
‘Sure thing, guv, though I’d ’ave ’ad a sarnie if I’d known you were paying.’
Roberts took the drinks, said, ‘Good news, not magnificent news.’
Brant looked longingly at the food cabinet, said, ‘They sure are tempting.’
They took a corner table at the back of the pub. A police position, to see and not be seen.
Brant said, ‘Your boy, the Scot, is hoping to shaft me.’
‘McDonald?’
‘Yeah, him.’
‘You’re getting paranoid, sarge, he’s all right.’
‘I heard the Super tell him.’
Roberts took a sip, then, ‘Oh sure what did you do … bug his office?’
‘Yes.’
It took a moment to sink in. Then incredulity, ‘No … not even you would be that crazy!’
‘The Super says I’m too Celtic.’
Roberts took his drink in a gulp, shook his head. Brant said, ‘Over on the Tottenham Court Road there’s a shop called Total Surveillance. A Spy Supermarket.’
Roberts put Up his hand, ‘Tell me no more. Good God, they’ll hang you out to dry.’
‘That’s what they want to do, guv, this way, I’m a jump ahead.’
‘You’re a flaming lunatic is what you are.’
Brant signalled to the barman. Then he roared, ‘Same again … before the holidays.’
The drinks came and Brant said, ‘He’s paying. He’s had good news.’
The barman didn’t appear too pleased but said, ‘How nice.’
‘And I’ll have one of them sarnie jobs. Pop it in the toaster, let it near burn.’
The barman said, with dripping sarcasm, ‘Would there be any other jobs?’
‘Naw, you’re doing too much as it is.’
Roberts sulked till Brant asked, ‘Wanna know what they said about you?’
‘No I bloody don’t.’
Then a few minutes later, ‘Go on then.’
‘That you’re out on yer ass.’
‘Never.’
‘Would I lie? It’s on tape.’
‘Bastards, keep buggin’ ’em.’
Profile
Barry Lewis was thirty-two-years-old. Tall, with a slight stoop, he had blond hair in a buzz cut. Even features that missed being good looking. He was in shape due to two sessions weekly at the gym. Barry burned with hate. He’d recently lost his job ‘cooking’ at McDonald’s. Prior to that, he’d been with
Burger King,
Pizza Hut,
Pret a Manger.
A brief stint with British Rail was hardly worth mentioning. He never did.
All his supervisors had been black and female. Each time he’d start out well. He had it all:
Punctuality,
Cleanliness,
Friendliness.
He knew how to fit, he just didn’t know how to fit continuously. Slowly, the supervisors would all begin to notice, snap, ‘Wotcha always got yo’ eyes on me, white boy?’
As if he’d look at the bitches. So OK, once or twice he’d sneak a peek. Imagine that black flesh under his hand, all that heat. He swore out loud: ‘I never touched that cow at Burger King.’
Like that. He knew they wanted it.
Or that woman at Pizza Hut who’d asked, ‘Yo Barry, nice boy like you, how come you no got yourself a girlfriend?’
Putting him down. Making him go red and howling, ‘See, seed a white boy blushing.’
Packing his gear at British Rail, the knife was just lying there. It gleamed. Long black bone handle and the shining blade. Took it in his hand, it felt good. No … it felt right, and he mimicked his tormentors, said, ‘Ah-rite.’
Slipped it in his jacket. He’d had no plan, no outline strategy. One evening he’d gone out, had a few beers, loosened up. A trendy pub off Clapham Common, Whitney Houston on the speakers. Jeez, he’d like to do it to her. Yeah, kick fuck outta Bobby Brown first. The woman just drifted into his line of vision.
She was with friends, head back laughing. Yeah, he saw the bitch touching the men on the knees, getting them hot. Followed her out and she said goodbye to the group. Headed off alone in London at night? Had to be begging for it.
Next thing he had the knife to her throat, shouting obscenities in her ear. After, he wanted to kill her. The following weeks, the need grew and he went hunting. He wasn’t even sure how many. Only six had gone to the cops.
He was famous. When he read the papers and they’d said, ‘Reign of Terror’, he’d felt omnipotent.
Now who was staring? Who was fucking blushing, eh?
Barry liked to cook. Had an Italian recipe book and was working through it. Regardless of ingredients, he always used garlic and would laugh out loud, thinking, Keep the vamps at bay. It never failed to amuse him.
He went into the new wine bar, had a glass of white. Not bad. Then he saw her. Felt the rush, oh yeah, she was next. Fit all the points,
Pretty
Black
Confident.
It was an added high because he knew h
e’d kill this one. On her way out, she bumped his back and he said, ‘My fault.’ Falls gave him her best smile.
Rosie had answered a routine call. Disturbance on the ground floor of a high-rise. Probably nothing, but she was sent to check anyway.
All quiet when Rosie got there, she banged on the door. A young woman answered, about twenty-two, her eyes had seen it all and none of it pretty. Launched into it. ‘It’s Jimmy, he’s back on smack, beat me when I said I’d no money.’
Rosie stepped in, asked, ‘Where’s Jimmy now?’
‘He’s nodding off in the bedroom.’
Rosie smiled, said, ‘I’ll have a word, eh.’
‘Tell him I’ve no money, he won’t believe me.’
Rosie went to the bedroom. The curtains were drawn and she tried the light. Nope. A figure was hunched on the bed, long hair hanging down. Rosie said, ‘Jimmy?’ No response. She moved over and put out her hand to touch him.
His hand came up and he sank his teeth in her hand, bit down. Rosie heard the woman scream, ‘Don’t let ’im touch yah, he’s got Aids.’
Brant was standing at the Oval. Roberts was due to pick him up. A guy had been clocking him, sussing him out. Brant was aware without being concerned. He knew it would be a hustle, he figured he’d heard them all. Finally, the guy approached, asked, ‘In the market for a good watch, mate?’
‘Sure.’
The guy looked round, said, ‘I’m not talking yer Bangkok monkeys. None of that rubbish. This is prime.’
‘Let’s have a look.’
‘It’s a Tag.’
When Brant didn’t react, the guy said, ‘Like Tag Heuer, man, top of the heap.’
Brant sighed, said, ‘Are you going to produce it or just keep yapping.’
Brant could see it in the guy’s eyes-‘a hook … gotcha.’
Out came the watch and Brant took it, said, ‘It’s a fake.’
The guy was stunned. ‘It’s no fake.’
Then Brant took out his warrant card and the guy rolled his eyes. Taking off his own watch, Brant tried on the Tag, said, ‘So’s you don’t go away empty handed, I’m going to give you this original.’
