by Ken Bruen
‘But maybe he wasn’t the Clapham Rapist.’
‘Well he was some bloody area’s rapist and good friggin’ riddance.’
He slammed down the phone. She started to cry … wanted to drink, then rang Ryan.
He answered, ‘Yeah?’
‘Help me.’
‘I’m on my way.’
She tried to compose herself. Decided she’d only tell him a little.
When he arrived, he put his arms round her and she told him the lot. He’d made her a cup of sweet tea and held it while she drank. When she’d finished her story, he said, ‘I’d never have took you for a copper.’
‘Because I’m black.’
‘Cos you’re beautiful.’
Fright night
Neville Smith was doing good. A stockbroker, he had a house in Dulwich, two kids at boarding school, and his new car. An Audi. As he gazed at it he said, ‘Vorsprung Techniquo.’
It was that and more.
Neville liked to drive fast and just a tad recklessly. He truly believed that ninety percent of drivers had no right to be there. They all had the look of National Assistance. He liked to cut them up and take the road. Austin Micras, Ka’s, Datsuns, ‘all garbage,’ he said.
There’d been a diversion so he found himself heading for the Elephant roundabout. If he could make the light, he’d gain time. He swerved in front of a Rover almost touching the fender. He definitely took paint and made the light. He could see the driver and his passenger shouting at him. The adrenalin rush made him near euphoric and he put up the two fingers.
Through the lights and he accelerated, shouted, ‘Morons!’
The Rover pulled in near the park and Tommy Logan asked, ‘You got the number?’
‘Sure did, guv.’
‘Good man, I want to know who he is by lunchtime.’
The driver was speed dialling, said, ‘I’m on it.’
Two days later, Neville was relaxing over a gin and tonic. His wife asked, ‘How about sushi?’
He took his cue, followed with the expected line, ‘If you knew sushi like I know sushi…
They both laughed, not so much humour as the ease of familiarity.
‘Will you open the wine darling while I prepare the table?’
‘Of course.’
He’d done that and was about to glance at the news when the door bell rang.
He said, ‘I’ll go.’
Opening the door, he saw two heavy set men. One asked, ‘Do you own an Audi?’ And gave the registration.
‘Yes I do … why?’
The first said, ‘You’ve got dirt on the side.’
‘What?’
Then he was pushed backwards and the men followed him in closing the door. The first man began to slap Neville across the face. His wife came running, started to scream.
Tommy Logan kicked her in the stomach, said, ‘Don’t start.’
Now Tommy moved over to Neville and spun him round, face down on the stairs. Tore Neville’s pants down and said, ‘Do yah want it, eh? Want some of this?’
Tommy stood back, asked, ‘Have I got yer attention?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘No.’
Tommy lashed out with his fist, roaring ‘I’m the guy you cut up in traffic.’
Another blow and, ‘And gave the two fingers to.’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry now, sorry we caught you.’
Neville was blubbering, ‘Let me make it up to you … money…
‘Shaddup!’ Tommy said. And, as if he’d just thought of it, ‘Course, the car’s to blame.’
Neville, sensing a tiny shimmer of hope, said, ‘You’re right … one gets carried away.’
Tommy smiled said, ‘It must be punished … bad car.’
Tommy pushed Neville out to the garage.
Took a look round then said, ‘My man has just the ticket.’
Mick came in, dragging the woman and carrying a hurley, handed it to Tommy, who took it and gave a slow swing. Asked, ‘Isn’t it a beauty?’
Handed the hurley to Neville, said, ‘Go on … won’t bite you.’
For a moment, as he held it, a fire touched his eyes.
Tommy laughed, ‘Don’t even think about it or I’ll make you eat it.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Punish the car, beat the living daylights outta it and keep saying “bad car”.’
Tommy looked over at Neville’s wife, said, ‘If you don’t, my man there is going to fuck her all over this garage. Trust me, he’s an animal.’
Neville lifted the hurley, said, ‘Bad car.’
Say cheese
Brant was sitting in his armchair, smoking and thinking. In his career, he’ d broken two major cases with a hunch. He’d acted on them when all the evidence pointed elsewhere. He’d play what he knew, then let it settle, add in the possibilities and bingo, he’d get an answer.
Now he sat bolt upright in his chair, said, ‘Jesus.’ Then he got on the phone, said, ‘It’s Brant.’
‘Sergeant, how are you? Did the bugging device work?’
‘Like a dream.’
‘Good, do you need something?’
‘A hidden camera.’
‘No problem, where is it to go?’
‘In a kitchen.’
‘Mmm, tricky to install.’
‘It’s my own kitchen.’
‘Right … when?’
‘Now.’
‘Gimme yer address, I’ll be there in an hour.’
Brant gave it, said, ‘I appreciate it.’
‘A pleasure.’
‘I’ll watch for you.’
The man laughed, said, ‘Sergeant, leave the surveillance to us, it’s what we do.’
That evening when Cheta arrived, she was carrying bags of groceries. First off she gave him a swallowing kiss, then pushed him off, with ‘Hombre … my caballero, first we eat.’
Needling, he said, ‘Let’s go out.’
No way. She indicated the bags of stuff.
‘This is especial, now … you relax, the kitchen is mine … no hombres allowed.’
He made as if to follow, ‘That’s not very liberated.’
She threw her hands, mock horror, said, ‘I am Spanish.’
‘OK … what’s on the menu?’
‘Paella … with the recipe of Andalucia, gorelax.’
He opened a beer but barely touched it, gave her forty-five minutes, then, ‘Honey, I’ve got to go.’
She came storming out, ‘How? I hear no phone.’
‘My mobile, very discreet but it’s urgent.’
‘But the dinner … is ready … have pocito, taste.’
He was already at the door, ‘I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.’
‘Will I wait?’
‘No, it’s an all nighter.’
He waited outside in the Volvo. He figured she was cunning but none too smart. They rarely got to be both. After half-an-hour, a cab pulled up, she came out, gave her destination, never looked round. She lived in Streatham, back of the swimming pool. A row of terraces in the passageway, she went into the second.
As he drove away, he phoned Roberts, asked, ‘Like to see a video?’
‘What now?’
‘It’s a one-off, you’ll recognise the star.’
‘Do I bring anything.’
‘Handcuffs, probably.’
The picture was quality, none of that grainy effect. If Brant thought it was strange to watch her in his own kitchen, he didn’t show it. Just smoked a lot of Weights. They could see her put the paella on the plates then go to her bag, extract a small bottle and douse one plate.
Brant said, ‘Guess who that’s for.’
Then she was gone.
Brant explained, ‘It’s me telling her I’m off.’
Back she came and they could see her rage as she scraped the dishes into the bin.
Roberts asked, ‘You have the bin?’
&
nbsp; ‘Oh yeah.’
Next she tidied up, washed all the gear, even wiped the floor. Roberts said, ‘Good little housekeeper though.’
Brant smiled, answered, ‘Deadly.’
The lab test showed liquid arsenic.
Roberts asked, ‘Wanna come when we give her a tug?’
‘No … I’ll pass I think.’
Later, Roberts said, ‘Buy you a drink?’
‘Yeah great, but a pub with no barmaids.’
‘Right.’
After they’d had a few, Roberts asked, ‘Wanna hear about it?’
‘Sure.’
‘She had a reason.’
‘Oh good, that makes it all right then.’
Roberts signalled for another round, said, ‘She claims she never intended to kill, just to sicken you as it is men always sickened her.’
Brant took a belt of scotch, said, ‘A nutter eh?’
‘Barking.’
Roberts felt he should offer some support or even solace. But, all he could give was, ‘Don’t let it put you off women.’
Brant gave a huge belch, said, ‘It sure as hell put me off paella.’
Benediction moon
‘I’m a spiritual person,’ the man said to Porter Nash. It was a rite of passage at any new station, you got the loopy cases. This was certainly that.
The man had been attacked by a pimp and a hooker. They’d given him a sound thrashing. Nash asked, ‘How did you happen to ah … meet these people?’
The man sighed, he didn’t suffer fools gladly.
‘I go to professional ladies and to demonstrate their baseness to them, I pay them in a similar coinage.’
‘You’re not a priest, are you?’
Tolerant smile, ‘I’m a deacon of the flesh.’
Nash read the charge sheet again. He was getting a migraine. He said, ‘You gave the lady two forged fifties.’
‘It’s debauchery, paid for by deceit.’
Nash asked, ‘Where do you get the funny money?’
‘A chap in an ale house had a bag of them, a British Homes Store brand … yes, I’m sure of that.’
Nash said, ‘You’ll go down for … something.’
The man stood up, ‘I’ll embrace the penitentiary.’
‘Believe me, they’ll help you.’
As they took him away, he shouted, ‘I see auras.’
‘Course you do.’
‘And yours, sir, is blue.’
Nash had to ask, ‘That good?’
‘’Ish.’
He went to the canteen and the tea lady was delighted anew with his manners. Ordered tea and got two slices of toast he hadn’t ordered, said, ‘I didn’t order toast.’
She gave a full silver toothed smile, ‘It’s my little treat.’
‘Gosh … how wonderful.’
Thinking, if he got five minutes with a novel, he’d better meet the day. Had a round of toast drenched and dripping in butter, then opened his book.
‘Can I join you?’
Falls.
He thought, Ah, shag off, is it too much to ask for a few minutes?
He said, ‘Please do.’
She asked, ‘Wotcha reading?’
‘It’s Jane Smiley’s A Thousand Acres.’
‘I dunno her.’
He wanted to roar, ‘Quelle surprise!’, but said, ‘She won the Pulitzer.’
‘That’s good?’
‘It’s not bad.’
‘Is it good?’
‘Well, I’m only on the third acre but it’s boring the pants off me.’
She laughed, said, ‘Thanks for not treating me like an ignoramus.’
He offered the toast, saying, ‘It’s heaven.’
She took it, asked, ‘How’d you get toast like this?’
He only smiled, so she said, ‘I think we’re mates.’
Nod.
‘So, can I ask your opinion.’
He gave her the final slice, a true sacrifice and said, ‘I’m a good choice cos I tell people what they want to hear.’
‘Oh God, don’t do that.’
‘OK.’
‘There’s a man…
‘I hear you.’
She glanced around, she sure as hell didn’t want anyone to hear, asked, ‘How do I know if it’s … you know … love?’
This Nash could do. He smiled said, ‘A few questions will answer that.’
‘Oh.’
‘Do you wanna go for it?’
‘Ahm…OK, I think.’
‘Do you think of him [here Nash did an American accent] like all the time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you got the runs?’
She laughed and nodded. ‘Is your appetite screwed? Do songs seem to be directed specifically at you? Do you want to do nothing but stare out the window?’
‘Yes, yes, yes.’
‘Now for the biggie, the litmus test.’
Falls felt nervous, said, ‘I feel nervous.’
‘So you should, here goes.’
He went American again.
‘Would you, like, just die if you saw him with somebody else?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Then I must inform you, WPC Falls, that you are completely and irrevocably in love, and may God have mercy on your soul.’
Later, rearranging his CDs, he pulled out ‘Benediction Moon’. Its mix of keening loss, awareness, and wonder were the articulation of a heart on fire.
Let’s party
A warehouse near the Elephant had been transformed. A crowd had gathered outside to see the party-goers arrive. When Tommy Logan got there he gave two fingers to the crowd. That they understood. Gave him a rousing cheer. ‘My people,’ he said.
As fixed, security was provided by off duty cops. McDonald was on the door, he said to Tommy: ‘Good evening, sir.’
Tommy palmed him a ten, said, ‘Keep up the good work.’
Inside the band were tuning up. Tommy said to Mick, ‘Who are they?’
‘The band you requested.’
‘Can they play?’
‘They’re a spit from being famous, guv.’
The warehouse had lived many lives. At one stage it had been a cinema and a balcony ran along the back. The projection room was still intact. A flight of stairs led from it to the street. Mick moved up to the band, said to the surly Matt, ‘Get started.’
‘We’re artists man, we don’t just start.’
Mick hopped lightly on to the stage, went nose-to-nose, said, ‘You’re history if you don’t and never, like fuckin’ never call me man, get it?’
He got it.
They kicked off with a cover of The Verve’s ‘Bittersweet Symphony’, the extended one.
Tommy said, ‘Sounds like the Rolling Stones.’
Mick was clued, said, ‘Based on “The Last Time”!’
‘It’s good, they’re OK.’
Mick said, ‘They’re keen as mustard, chuffed to play for you.’
A stir at the door as the Super arrived. Harry the solicitor behind. Their wives were interchangeable. Like models of Mrs Thatcher. Tommy moved to greet them, signalling to a waiter for champagne. Outside, to the left of the crowd, Brant was leaning on his car, cigarette going. Roberts drove up, rolled down his window, said, ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’
‘You neither.’
‘You going to gatecrash?’
‘If you’re game.’
Roberts smiled, said, ‘Lemme park, I’ll get back to you.’
Brant flicked the cig away, said, ‘I’ll be here.’
When McDonald saw them approach, he went, ‘Oh, shit.’
Worse, they were smiling at him. Inside, the band were attempting ‘Working Class Hero’ as a touch of contempt.
But as usual, those who least understood the song were the ones who most appreciated it. Roberts said, ‘Bit of moonlighting, McDonald?’
‘Sir.’
They made to enter and he stepped in front of them, said, ‘Guv, I’ll have to see y
er invites.’
Brant said, ‘Gee, we left them in the car.’
McDonald didn’t move and Roberts said, ‘S’cuse me son.’
He moved.
The first person they met was Tommy’s wife, Tina. She said, ‘I can’t believe you got invited.’
Roberts looked at her, said, ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
The Super glared at them across the hall. Brant waved. More people arrived and the place was becoming crowded. Brant asked Tina to dance, she said, ‘Get real.’
Tommy said to Mick, ‘I want them outta here.’
‘There’d be a scene.’
‘Are you saying let ’em be?’
‘For now.’
‘Fuckers!’
Food was served and Brant was first in line. Got double helpings. His plate overflowing, he moved back to Roberts, said, ‘The grub is good, guv, wanna try some?’
Roberts looked at it in disgust, said, ‘It would choke me.’
‘Food dunno from shit, guv … it’s like money.’
‘You’re getting very philosophical.’
‘Naw, just hungry.’
Like all shindigs worth the name, there was a raffle. Cops love them. Brant had a fistful of tickets, said to Roberts, ‘Do you feel lucky?’
‘Gimme a break!’ And he moved off.
First prize of a music centre went to Harry the solicitor.
Good humoured shouts of Fix! Fix! punctuated his acceptance of the prize. Tommy was doing the presentation. His face was shining, his triumph assured. He said, ‘Second prize of my own personal favourite, a Waterford crystal bowl, goes to a green ticket Number 93.’
When he saw who’d won, his face dropped. Brant. When Brant got to the stage, he gave Tommy a huge hug, whispered, ‘Ya wanker.’ Then stepped back as Tommy handed over the prize.
Brant took it, looked down at the crowd, then let go. The crystal shattered in a thousand pieces. Brant said, ‘Oops!’
On Brant’s way down the hall, he came face to face with the Super who said, ‘My office, nine of clock sharp.’
Brant smiled, said, ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
The band launched into a frenzied version of ‘Let’s Dance’.
Brant spotted Tina, asked, ‘Wanna quickstep?’
‘You’ve got to be kidding.’
‘Yeah, you’re too fat for it all right.’
