Calibre ib-6

  Calibre

  ( Inspector Brant - 6 )

  Ken Bruen

  Ken Bruen

  Calibre

  1

  Shit from Shinola. You have to hand it to the goddamn Yanks, they have great verbals, man. I love the way they cuss.

  I killed my first last Tuesday, I can’t believe it was so easy. Remorse? Not a fuckin’ trace. Only sorry I didn’t do it sooner.

  I’m forty-four years old, and I guess I’m what you’d call a late starter. Or as them Yanks have it, a late bloomer. Thirty years I could have been mowing down the fucks and what was I doing?

  Working.

  A working stiff.

  I think it was Bob Geldof who said work was the biggest con of all. I listen to The Rats with ‘I Don’t Like Mondays’ and I’ve got my soundtrack down. They nailed it. The silicon chip inside my head just switched to overload.

  Been a long time coming.

  My old man, Anthony Crew, worked in an asbestos factory all his life. The last ten years he spent coughing up blood and gook till his eyes bulged. His employers, did they cover the hospital bills? They did fuck-all.

  The National Health Service did the best they could but he was fucked and gone; he was dead and didn’t know it, wouldn’t lie down. The Mick in him, those Paddies, tough sons of bitches. Every Sunday I went round his gaff, a council flat on Railton Road, and listened to him cough. James Joyce is buried in Switzerland near a zoo, and his wife, Nora Barnacle, said:

  ‘He liked to listen to the lions roar.’ Brixton is as close to a zoo as it gets. My dad, his face contorted to grotesque degrees of agony, and I wanted to kill some fucker.

  Now I have:

  Willeford

  Woolich

  Thompson.

  My heroes. I’ve read crime fiction for over twenty years, can’t get enough, black as it’s painted. The classic hard-boiled, though, these guys are the biz.

  Noir and out.

  Shit-kickers par excellence. My bookcase is an homage to pulp:

  James M. Cain

  Hammett

  Chandler.

  Here’s a thing. I can’t read Chandler’s novels any more, but his letters, phew-oh, now you’re cooking. They’re on my bedside table, resting on my old man’s Bible. His book passed down through generations of navvies to land here in Clapham. Could be worse, could be Kilburn.

  Might be yet.

  Used to be if you were in a hotel and wanted a hooker, open the Gideon Bible back page, bingo. Not any more. I blame the Internet, all that cybersex and chat rooms, they’ve taken the zing out of dirt.

  I’m not going to get caught. I’m due for another kill on Friday, a woman this time, keep the balance. The reason I won’t get caught is not just cos I’m smart but I have an edge.

  I watch CSI.

  STUDY IT.

  So I’m au fait… With all the DNA fibres, signatures, trophies, crap. Two things in my corner, I’m random and I’m careful.

  Hard to top.

  They won’t.

  I’ve read the true crime books, from Ann Rule through Joe McGinnis to Jack Olsen. Man I know my shit. Am I a psychopath? A sociopath? A paranoid schizophrenic? A narcissistic disorder? A blip on the human radar?

  Who the fuck cares. What I am is good and angry, like Peter Finch in Network. You think you can label me, tame me?

  Dream on, sucker.

  I’m the pale rider of Clapham.

  But hey, let’s get it down. I’m not into weird shit. None of that cannibalism or jerking off on bodies. Jeez, I hate that stuff. Truth to tell, I can’t even read about it. And child molesters? Don’t get me started.

  Kids? Would I kill a kid? No way, Jose. Not unless he was in a boy band.

  This is my reality TV. Killing for prime time.

  Here’s another thing, hope you’re taking notes cos, like, I’ll be asking questions. Ever see that profiler shine they pedal? Me now, they’d typically pin as:

  White (true)

  Late twenties, early thirties (wrong)

  Loner (mm… mmm)

  Isolated (nope)

  Impotent (hey!)

  Narcissistic (well okay, I’ll give ’em that)

  Low-paying job (nope)

  No partner (wrong again)

  Quiet (I’m a party animal).

  You want to know how they catch serials?

  Luck, dumb friggin’ luck. Bundy got stopped for a busted tail-light. I don’t have a damaged vehicle, no sirree. I’ve got cash; and if I ever get stupid, I’ll get a pick-up, a hound dog, and a shitpile of Hank Williams.

  Music.

  You ever hear of a killer into tunes? Apart from looney ones? I listen to music all the time.

  But Time Out.

  Not the mag, me. I’m beat. This writing isn’t as easy as the pulpists would lead you to think. I’m learning the craft from Chandler’s letters. All you ever need to know, he not only tells you how but why.

  Oh and another reason the dumb fucks keep getting apprehended? Someone drops a dime. The Irish disease, like alcoholism, is ratting out. They invented Guinness but also the fink.

  So don’t talk. You don’t talk, there’s nothing to rat out. ‘Loose lips sink ships.’

  Gotta get some zzzz’s.

  And I’m not lazy, whatever else I am. I’ll tell you everything.

  — Jim Thompson, The Killer Inside Me

  2

  Sergeant Brant was in the canteen. Slung over the back of his chair was a Driza-Bone jacket. He was licking the chocolate off a Club Milk; the sounds he made were deliberately loud, exaggerated, and having the desired effect. Cops at nearby tables were aware of him, powerless to shout:

  ‘For fucksakes!’

  Brant was a pig, worked at it. He was heavily built with a black Irish face that wasn’t so much lived in as squatted upon. He was wearing a very expensive suit that whispered:

  ‘Serious wedge.’

  He had numerous schemes running, all illegal, that kept him in a style ill-suited to a sergeant in the SE London Met. The brass knew he was dirty, he knew they knew, but proof remained elusive.

  Superintendent Brown had tried for years to shaft him.

  Unsuccessfully.

  Brant was deeply tan. Another feature not common to cops. He’d wrangled his way onto a Police Exchange Scheme in Australia and spent two weeks sydney. To annoy his immediate superior, Chief Inspector Roberts, he now littered his speech with Strine, Oz slang. Roberts, seriously irritated by Brant’s chocola, moved his own tea aside, said:

  ‘We better get a move on.’

  Brant now wished he’d dunked the last of his Club Milk in his tea, few things matched the melting chocolate rush. He reached in his jacket, took out a pack of Peter Jackson, a twenty-five box, as is the norm in Oz.

  Plus a battered Zippo. All over the canteen were decals, roaring: SMOKING VERBOTEN.

  Well, not in Kraut but with that tone. Roberts sighed as Brant cranked the lighter, an old inscription on the side, barely legible: 1968.

  Brant smiled, not his usual wolverine but something near regret, shrugged it off, said:

  ‘I tell you, sir, the sheilas in Oz were seriously stacked.’

  The alliteration was no accident, he’d worked on it, tuned to gain max vexation.

  All in the timing. Whatever else, Brant knew the value of timing. Roberts sighed, went:

  ‘When are you going to get over Australia?’

  Brant feigned hurt then:

  ‘With all due respect, sir, you don’t get over Oz. Ask Bill Bryson.’

  Roberts could give a toss who Bryson was, still it was a change if not an improvement that for once Brant wasn’t pushing Ed McBain. The old Penguin editions, the Eighty-seventh Precinct mysteries, Brant had owned them all, every blessed one. Til
l The Umpire destroyed them. An old case, never closed. Lately, Brant was obsessed with writing, fancied himself an English Joseph Wambaugh, would go:

  ‘Money in crime…’

  Pause.

  Big delivery:

  ‘Writing.’

  Then the previous McBain, Fat Ollie’s Book, had accelerated Brant’s vision of the cop/author. He’d even bought The Writers’ and Artists’ Year Book, was trawling through agents and likely publishers.

  Roberts asked:

  ‘Falls back yet?’

  A black WPC. The wet dream of the nick, her star had spectacularly dipped. Suspected of offing a cop killer, a spell in rehab, a near lethal coke habit, and a lesbian fling with a bomber. She was barely clinging to her job. If she’d been white, she’d been gone. Brant dropped his cig in the cup, heard the sizzle, said:

  ‘They got her on that schools gig.’

  The very bottom of the Met barrel. No, worse, out-side the barrel, trying to reach the bottom. Certain assignments:

  Traffic

  Railton Road nights

  Press liason

  Were regarded as shite, but going into classrooms, telling apprentice muggers about the role of the police (as if they didn’t know the deal… cops beat on you, run your ass ragged). This gig was regarded as the last stop before dismissal. In fact it was dismissal, bar the shouting. Consigned to that dark side of the moon too was PC McDonald, once the Super’s golden boy and potential hatchet-man. He’d seriously fucked up and got shot into the bargain.

  McDonald and Falls had a history, none of it good. They didn’t totally hate each other, but it was in the zone. Falls had hit on a shit pile of money and sent some of it to McDonald, anonymously, but he didn’t seem to have improved in any noticeable fashion. The other cops had a lottery going as to which would crack first. The pool was a healthy?500 and growing. If they both jacked, there was a double-indemnity clause.

  Brant asked:

  ‘You put some money on?’

  ‘On Falls folding?’

  A little alliteration himself, it was contagious. Roberts brushed at his suit, an old number from his married days and not wearing well, said:

  ‘I’m the Gov, how’d it be if I was betting on my squad jacking.’

  Brant smiled, went:

  ‘It’d be smart.’

  They were currently tracking a stolen-car ring and pressure was on as the superintendent’s Lexus had been taken. A number of false leads had increased the man’s ire. One of Brant’s snitches now claimed to have real information. Brant’s ‘informers’… finks, had a lethal record of getting wasted. The current one was still hanging in. Named Alcazar, known as Caz, he had a history of hanging-paper, dealing in dodgy travellers cheques. Various times he was from:

  Puerto Rico

  Honduras

  South America.

  What made him stand out from the herd was, he’d never done time.

  He was short, with black hair, a dancer’s body, and hooded eyes.

  He was from Croydon.

  And man, he could dance: flamenco salsa jive la Macarena.

  His choice of weapon was a stiletto, pearl-handled of course. He put oceans of Brylcreem in his hair and smoked Ducados like a good ‘un.

  What you might call a fully rounded individual. He wore a huge, gold medallion of ‘Our Lady of Guadalupe.’

  Roberts asked:

  ‘Who’s this source we’re meeting?’

  Brant gave him the full wattage of his smile, said:

  ‘You’ll like him; he’s a dancer.’

  And she’d got it. Nothing.

  — Jim Thompson, The Killer Inside Me

  3

  Porter Nash had a new boyfriend.

  Sorta.

  Being a ranking officer and gay was not exactly usual. Plus, to add to his CV he’d recently been diagnosed with diabetes and had moved to type one. This is not an award, on the fucking contrary, it’s heavy weather, you have to inject twice a day. Porter had never tried to hide his gayness. In fact he frequently paraded it through outward gestures, gestures the Carter Street cops believed proved you were gay, like menthol cigs, Barbara Streisand music, a gold bracelet, and, damning proof, a caustic tongue.

  But Porter got results and impressive ones. Even Brant, a raging homophobe, gave him grudging respect. Porter had previously been gold in the prize posting of Kensington. Nirvana, the upper echelon of the Met. A question over the beating of a p?dophile led to his transfer.

  Initially, he’d made a close bond with Falls, a true merger of minorities, but her spectacular spiral downwards had split them. He missed her.

  She detested him.

  Had spat:

  ‘You’re not gay, you’re ambitious.’

  Even a faggot couldn’t comprehend this logic. He’d asked:

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  She’d glared at him, sparks emphasizing the whiteness of her large eyes, radiant against the black of her skin, said:

  ‘It means you’re a prick, no pun intended.’

  Gay that.

  He couldn’t.

  The new boyfriend was named Trevor Blake. Porter had met him in a pub near the Oval. Trevor was the barman, in his late twenties, and was riding the stick.

  In normal English, pulling pints.

  Porter had had a rough day. The Super had carpeted him, said:

  ‘Listen to this.’

  He was holding a letter, his hands trembling with agitation.

  Read:

  To Supt. Brown

  Greetings, sir. See, I have manners. I learnt from Elvis and the novels of Daniel Buckman that manners are the finest manipulation.

  Brown paused, adjusted his pince-nez, looked out over them, asked:

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Sorry, sir, is what true?’

  Brown was not amused, snapped:

  ‘About bloody manners. Don’t your lot do etiquette at queer school?’

  Porter felt the lash, the almost lazy bigotry, the redneck conclusion of civility with homosexuality, tried to rein in, said:

  ‘If you mean, sir, do “Us lot” care about the feelings of others, well yes, we do have manners. As to manipulation, I couldn’t rightly say’

  Pushing it.

  He thought the Super was trailer trash, tried not to display so too openly. The sarcasm was wasted. It went right over Brown’s head, who resumed reading:

  I wish to inform you that last Tues. I pushed a man under a train. The express from Brighton, it was of course late and no buffet service I believe. He was the first. This Friday, I’ll kill a woman, without prejudice, extreme or otherwise. My mission, which I’ve decided to accept, is to teach the denizens of our little corner a lesson.

  A lesson in manners.

  Anyone, and I mean anyone, who behaves like an asshole in public shall be terminated. What people do in private is, naturally, none of my business. For research purposes, you might read Mr Candid by Jules Hardy or Blackstone by… mmmm, the author’s name escapes me; he kills people for similar reasons.

  A copy of this missive has been sent to the media. I don’t want to draw them on you, but if we involve them at an early stage, maybe it’s for the best.

  Perhaps you’d be kind enough to inform your officers that they are not exempt from my intended cull.

  Between us, Superintendent, we may create a tiny patch of civility in Southeast London. Is it too much to ask that in these uncertain days of fear, with cyberterrorists, ecoterrorists, and just plain terrorists, we may create a small area of forever England.’ Who knows, it may catch on, and the country might learn a touch of refinement. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, eh? I’ll do my part and, as a sign of my good faith, noblesse oblige if you will, I’m going to save you some valuable time.

  I typed this on an old Remington I bought at a boot sale. Sharp, trained, and observant as you are, you’ll have noticed the ‘T’ is faulty.

  Brown hadn’t.

  This is not a clue, s
imply a faulty consonant. The paper I bought in Ryman’s, like a million other customers (or so they’d like us to believe).

  Fingerprints?

  Alas, no. The old surgical gloves.

  DNA?

  On the stamp… or the flap of the envelope… again no. I used tap water.

  I have provided one clue. Fair is fair, as we English tell the Iraqis. No, silly, not my nationality. Do focus, that’s not the clue.

  Porter suppressed a smile.

  The clue is the nom de plume. As the current idiom has it… ‘Wanna play?’ I think a recent novel by P.J. Taylor used that as a title.

  I digress.

  Good will hunting.

  Yours predatorily, FORD.

  Brown removed the pince-nez, literally flung the letter at Porter, and said:

  ‘Get on it.’

  ‘Am… sir.’

  The brusqueness was deliberate. Porter, not touching the letter, asked:

  ‘Is it right, no fingerprints?’

  Brown was close to a coronary, roared:

  ‘Course there’re bloody prints; the postman, my secretary, mine, and probably a hundred others, but usable ones?’

  He banged his desk, asked: ‘What type of moron do you take me for?’ There wasn’t a civil answer to this.

  Porter had gone to the pub and met Trevor, ending the day on a high note.

  … but now I just listened-not liking it… but accepting the confessions as an unwelcome part of the deal I had made with myself.

  — Charles Willeford, Cockfighter

  4

  Hello again.

  ‘Uptown Ranking,’ remember that tune? Gets you juicing, gets that energy cranked. Yeah?

  Had me a good one, sleep I mean. Took two Zanex with a double scotch, I was gone. Twelve hours straight.

  You ever have to fly long distance, there’s your solution. I once flew to Thailand, hadn’t any pills, watched four movies cold. Yup, one after another. That’ll put you in the zone, give you the old red eye. I think Jack Nicholson was in one or all of them. I flew Thai Airways, they keep you subdued with food. I went to Thailand to get laid.