The McDead ib-3 Read online

  The McDead

  ( Inspector Brant - 3 )

  Ken Bruen

  Ken Bruen

  The McDead

  Kick off

  ‘Am I dying?’

  Answer that. Do you lie big and say, like in the movies, ‘Naw, it’s just a scratch,’? Or, clutch his hand real tight and say, ‘I ain’t letting you go, bro’?

  Chief Inspector Roberts was a professional; a professional liar, among other things. It didn’t teach you that in the police manual. No, that came with promotion. He considered all the lines he could use. What he said was, ‘You’re dying.’

  Roberts had got the call at three in the morning. The hour of death. Coming reluctantly out of sleep, he muttered, ‘This better be bloody good.’ And heard, ‘James!’

  No one used his Christian name, not even his wife. He said, ‘Tony … Good Lord … where are you? D’ya know what time it is?’ And heard a sad laugh.

  Then: ‘I didn’t ring to ask the time. I’m hurt … I’m hurt pretty bad.’

  He sounded hurt, his speech was coming through slow and laboured. Eventually, Roberts pinned down an address, said, ‘Don’t move, I’m on me way.’

  Again, the sad laugh, ‘I won’t move, I can guarantee it.’ Roberts dressed quickly. His wife was asleep in another room. Yeah, like that.

  ‘Would it fuck.’ Roberts said aloud, ‘God, I haven’t much called on you … I know … but maybe this would be a good place to start.’

  He’d learned from his sergeant, a dubious example of Catholicism, that it was a bartering thing. You did something for God, He did something for you. Like the Masons really.

  He wasn’t sure what he had to trade and said, ‘I’ll … ah … do good works.’ What that entailed he’d no idea. Perhaps buy The Big Issue more regularly and not wait for change.

  Yeah, it was a place to start. He waited, then tried the ignition again.

  Nope

  Nada

  Zilch

  He glanced briefly upwards, said:

  ‘It’s about what I figured.’

  A mini-cab later and he arrived in Stockwell, where the pitbulls travelled in twos. Ludlow Road is near the tube station, a short mugging away. At that hour the streets were littered with

  the undead,

  the lost, and

  the frozen.

  The building was a warren of bedsits. No lock on the front door. A wino was spread in the hall, his head came up wheezed: ‘Is it Tuesday?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Roberts wondered if the guy even knew the year but hey … he was going to argue? He said, ‘It’s Thursday … OK?’

  ‘Ah, good. I play golf on Tuesdays.’

  Of course.

  Flat six had a cleaner door than most. It was ajar. Roberts entered slowly. Entered devastation-ville. The place had been thrashed, cushions slit open, TV smashed, broken chairs and crockery, and his broken brother lying in the bathroom. He was a mess of blood and bruising. From the angle of his legs, Roberts knew they were gone. He opened his eyes, well, half opened one. The other was shut down. By a hammer it seemed.

  He said, ‘James, can I get you something?’

  And Roberts tried not to smile, bent down said:

  ‘I called an ambulance.’

  His brother seemed to have lost consciousness, then said: ‘Oh good, is it a weekender?’

  A south-east London maxim. You called one on a weekday, could expect it on Saturday. Roberts didn’t know what to do, said: ‘I dunno what to do.’

  That’s when Tony asked if he was dying. He tried to cradle his brother’s head, there was blood everywhere, asked, ‘Who did this, Tone?’

  ‘Tommy Logan.’

  Before he could ask more, his brother convulsed, then let his head back, and died. When the medics arrived and scene of crime boyos, Roberts was led outside to the ruined sitting room. As they moved the body, a mobile fell to the floor. The officer in charge said, ‘I’m sorry, guv, but I have to ask some questions, you understand.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘No.’

  The officer tried to proceed delicately, asked, ‘He called you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And he didn’t give any indication of what had happened?’

  ‘He said he was hurt and could I come.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I came.’

  ‘Right … was he … ah … conscious … when you got here?’

  ‘No.’

  The officer looked round, said, ‘I see.’ But he didn’t. Went another direction, asked, ‘Were you close, guv?’

  ‘Close?’

  ‘You know, like regular contact?’

  Roberts focused, then said, ‘I spoke to him ten years ago … maybe eleven.’

  ‘Ah, so you weren’t, then?’

  Roberts turned his full look on the officer, said, ‘No wonder you’re a detective.’

  Living next door to Alice (Smokie)

  WPC Falls was standing in front of the Superintendent. He was drinking tea and drinking it noisily. It’s a very difficult task to chew tea but he appeared to have mastered it.

  Gnaw

  gnaw

  gnaw

  Like an anorexic rodent. He’d get it down but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Worse. A biscuit, a club milk. He slid open the wrapper, then carefully peeled back the silver paper, said, ‘They’re well protected.’

  Did he mean the public, criminals, tax dodgers? So, she just said, ‘Yes, sir.’ Which is about as unthreatening an answer as you can get.

  WPC Falls was black and pretty or, as they said in the canteen, ‘She’s pretty black’. Argue the toss. Recently, she’d fucked up spectacularly in both her personal and professional life. She’d been pregnant and had gone after an arsonist alone. Nearly killed, she’d lost the baby and almost her job.

  DS Brant had forced her along to arrest a hit man. It had saved her job and restored some of her confidence. Not all, but definitely in the neighbourhood. After, he’d said, ‘You know Falls, you’re getting a mean look.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, a nastiness around the eyes.’

  She couldn’t resist, said, ‘Like you, sergeant?’

  He laughed, answered, ‘See what I mean? Yeah … like me and, if you’re real smart, you’ll work on it.’

  Surprised, she asked, ‘Will it go away?’

  ‘Fuck no, you’ll get meaner.’

  The Super put the biscuit to the side, said, ‘Gratification postponed is gratification doubled.’

  Falls had a flurry of thoughts-Thank Christ he didn’t start on the biscuit. Yer pompous fart-all hedging on the insubordinate. She cautioned herself. Chill to chill out. Now the prize prick was flicking through her file adding sighs, tut-tuts, teeth clicking, every few pages. Finally, he sat back, said, ‘A checkered career to date.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Now he was tapping a pen against his teeth, exclaimed, ‘And such promise, you have the potential. Oh yes.’

  Falls thought, Yeah, I’m black and a woman.

  He closed the file then, as if only now was the idea crystallising, said, ‘I’m going to take a chance on you Falls, eh.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘No doubt you’re familiar with the Clapham Rapist?’

  Who wasn’t? A serial, he’d attacked six women, six black women. The lefties were kicking up a stink. Phrases such as ‘selective policing’ were surfacing.

  He continued: ‘You’ll be living in a bedsit in Clapham, going to pubs, clubs, all the places this johnnie hunts.’

  She tried to restrain herself but couldn’t, said, ‘A decoy?’

  He gave a tolerant smile, said, ‘Not a te
rm we’re keen on my girl, smacks of entrapment. We’ll have you covered all the way.’ Sure. ‘So, are you up to the job? I’ve picked you especially.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Thank you sir. Won’t let you down sir, etc.

  Brown-nosing to screaming point.

  ‘Good, the desk sergeant has the details. PC McDonald will be assisting you … that’s all.’

  She was just closing the door when he pounced on the club milk. Could hear him wolfing it as she moved away, muttered, ‘Hope it bloody chokes him.’

  As Brant had said, ‘Getting meaner by the minute’.

  The Greeks have a word for it

  There’s a narrow street connecting the Walworth Road to the east entrance of The Elephant and Castle shopping centre. It has second-hand furniture shops, a bookies, a boarded-up off licence and a taverna. The taverna is called The Spirit of Athens. It’s a dump. But it does OK, and has a minor reputation for its bacon sarnies. A hint of kebab is added to the mix and the locals like it. Gives a taste of the exotic and disguises the bacon.

  Culinary delight indeed.

  The owner is named Spiro Zacharopoulos. He’s a snitch and, more to the point, he’s DS Brant’s snitch. Brant looked like a thug and he was real proud of that. The Metropolitan Police believed he was a thug and were deeply ashamed of him. He’d had some major fuck-ups in his career which ensured he’d not rise above the rank of sergeant. But a number of last moment high profile case solutions had saved his career. It was always thus, thin ice to the promised land.

  A mix of ruthlessness and the luck of the Irish kept him in the game. Snitches were the lifeblood of police work. Brant knew this better than most. Now sitting at a table, he said to Spiro, ‘Jaysus, would it hurt to give the place a sweep?’

  ‘Ah Meester Brant, help is so … how you say … diskolo … difficult to get.’

  ‘By the look of this joint, it’s downright impossible. Couldn’t you get a brush?’

  Spiro spoke perfect English but it was useful to play it down. Gave him the edge. He said, ‘Ah Meester Brant, you make a joke.’

  Brant reached into his jacket, got a pack of Weights and a battered Zippo, lit up, exhaled, said, ‘When I make a joke boyo, you won’t be in any doubt about it.’

  Spiro, playing the anxious-to-please role, went and got an ashtray. Written along the side was Ouzo-12. Brant looked at it, flicked his ash on the floor, said, ‘That’s going to make all the difference, eh? What’s the twelve for?’

  Now Spiro could be the true Greek, hospitable friendly sly, said, ‘Ouziko Dodika.’

  ‘Which tells me what exactly? Doesn’t tell me shit pal.’

  ‘Wait … wait one moment.’ He got up, crossed to the bar and busied himself. Five minutes on he’s back with glasses, a bottle, snacks on plates and a jug of water, says, ‘Let me demonstrate.’ Pours the ouzo, adds water and it becomes the colour of window cleaner, nods to the snacks, explains, ‘These are meze, we eat, we drink, like we’re in Greece.’

  The ‘snacks’ consisted of

  two Ritz crackers,

  two slices of ‘rubber’,

  two thin wedges of cheese.

  Brant stared, then: ‘Jaysus, you broke the bank with all this grub … what’s the rubber bits?’

  ‘Octopu.’

  ‘I can only hope you’re kidding. Tell you what, I’ll feast on the others-you have the condoms.’

  He took his glass and before he drank, Spiro said, ‘Aspro pato.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Knocked it back, gasped and said, ‘Paint off a fucking gate…

  ‘You like?’

  Brant wiped his mouth, bit on a stale cracker, said, ‘Let’s cut the crap, boyo, and drop the Greek lesson … OK? You came to me pal offering yer help if I could help you with some problems. I delivered, you haven’t been shut down so, let’s hear it. You’re a snitch, so snitch.’

  Now Spiro was the offended party, whined, ‘Meester Brant, ah … I thought we were friends. Friends do each other a leetle favour.’

  He was into it now and would have built to operatic outrage but Brant leant over, gave him an almighty wallop to the side of the head, said:

  ‘You’re not paying attention, Costos.’

  ‘It’s Spiro.’

  ‘See, now you’re listening. Who’s the main player these days?’

  The main player had been Bill Preston. He was on sabbatical and various villains were vying for position. Spiro glanced round the empty restaurant, then said, ‘Tommy Logan. Like you, he is Irish, I think, but he has the mind of a Colombian.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘Without mercy, no … how you say…? boundaries … is why he is top because he will do anything.’

  ‘Well now, I’d like to meet the bold Logan.’

  ‘Mister Brant, be careful, this man is crazy. He has no respect for police or for anybody.’

  Brant poured some ouzo, said, ‘Let’s have some more turpentine, drink to Tommy Logan.’

  ‘Ah, you begin to like the ouzo.’

  Brant leant over and Spiro cowered, but the sergeant only put his arm round the Greek’s shoulder, squeezed, said, ‘I like you Costis, you and yer shit-hole caff.’

  Song for Guy

  A handful of mourners at Tony Roberts’ funeral. The Chief Inspector, Brant, Falls, McDonald, and a wino who looked vaguely familiar, but Roberts couldn’t quite recall where from.

  The vicar read, ‘Man is full of misery and has but a short time to live…

  Brant nudged him, none too gently, said, ‘Jaysus, padre, something less depressing.’

  The vicar said, ‘I say, do leave this to the proper authority. There are set rules and services.’

  Brant gave him the look, asked, ‘Wanna be first in the hole?’

  The padre looked for help but none was forthcoming, so he read an up tempo passage on light and salvation. Brant liked it fine.

  A persistent drizzle was coming down, not an outright soaking but a steady wetting. As if it hadn’t the balls to just pour on bloody down. When the body had been lowered, Brant moved near to Roberts, asked, ‘All right, guv?’

  ‘What … oh yes … thanks … listen, I, ahm … don’t they usually have sandwiches for people after…?’

  Brant smiled gently, a rare to rarest event, said, ‘I put a few quid behind the bar at The Roebuck, they do a lovely spread.’

  ‘Oh, do they?’

  ‘Well the owner’s a mick, knows about wakes. He’ll do us grand. I’ll leave you a moment, guv.’

  Roberts turned, asked, ‘What will I say? I dunno what to say.’

  ‘Tell him goodbye, guv … oh … and that you’ll fix the fuck what done him … OK?’

  Only Roberts and the wino remained. Then it came to him-the wino outside Tony’s door. The man said, ‘Sorry for your trouble, he was a gent he was. Gave me a few quid now and again.’

  Roberts reached for his wallet and the man was horrified. ‘I didn’t come here for beggin’.’

  ‘I know, I appreciate that, but for a last one with … Tony … would you humour me?’

  The wino was indignant but not stupid, took the cash, said, ‘So long’s you know I didn’t come cos o’ that.’

  Roberts nodded, stood alone for a moment then whispered, ‘Goodbye Tony, I’ll fix the fuck what done you … OK, lad?’

  Top dog

  There’s a new boot on the market. Heavy, thick-soled, menacing and highly impressive, called Wehrmacht. And, yeah, they pronounce it with a V and a tone. So, OK, it’s not actually called the Third Reich, but it’s implied. Could they give a fuck. Selling like designer sunglasses. Tommy Logan had a pair and he adored them. For good measure, he had the toes reinforced with steel. Kept them spit-shined and did those mothers gleam?

  His real name was Tommy Nash but that was before. In the Scrubs, he’d drowned a guy in a toilet. Not an easy task. You have to truly want to kill somebody. Tommy did.

  That evening in the recreation room, Johnny Logan won the Eurovis
ion for the third time. The cons were allowed to watch. To be in the Eurovision three times is some awful sentence but to win it three times, that’s diabolical. One of the lifers said, ‘Hey Tommy, you know what?’

  ‘Yeah?’ Lots of hard in his answer fresh from the afternoon kill, he was bullet-proof.

  ‘You look like that guy-that winner.’

  Tommy checked round, see if it was a piss-take. No. Lots of con heads nodding. Yeah, they could see it. Tommy heard the word WINNER. It sang to him.

  Johnny Logan was tall, dark hair, and the face of a cherub. He sang like a tenor angel. Tommy was short with mousy hair and a baby face. But the fit was in.

  Next day Tommy got a prison make-over. Had one of the cissies dye his hair black using polish and gel. Got it sleek and raven. After, he let the cissy go down and came quickly. A few minutes later he beat the cissy to pulp, shouting, ‘I hate fucking queers, man I just fucking hate ’em.’

  On Tommy’s release he didn’t go back to north London. He headed south-east and became Tommy Logan, adopted a half-assed Irish accent and thought it passed for humour. To complete the transition, he got a heavy gold Claddagh ring and ordered bottles of Guinness in public. It worked for Daniel Day Lewis. His music of choice was Sinead O’Connor. He believed her to be openly psychotic. Her songs sang to him of

  violence

  pay-back

  fuck you-all.

  The current favourite was Troy, where her Dublin accent lashed full and lethal. Jaysus, he couldn’t get enough of it. To hear Tommy sing the chorus with Sinead was to understand Armageddon. When she grew her hair again, he was a tad disappointed. To complete his Irish accreditation, his weapon of choice was a hurley. The national sport in Ireland, apart from talking, is hurling. A cross between hockey and homicide.

  A hurley is made from ash and about the length of a baseball bat. Twice as lethal as it’s much handier to swing. You get one in your hands, you want to swing like a lunatic.

  Every year the All Ireland Final was broadcast to London and Tommy relished every murderous minute. He’d spotted a poster of the Mayo team at an Irish dance and had it away. The team looked like a hardened bunch. Tommy imagined getting them behind you in the yard at Wormwood Scrubs and shouting ‘Up yah, boy.’