Calibre ib-6 Page 2

  Doesn’t everyone?

  Oh sorry, you probably love the culture.

  Bollocks.

  Try Paris, shit-head.

  Whoops, I lost it there and I do apologize. But it does actually elucidate my crusade.

  Which is:

  To restore politeness. In Thailand, man, they have that shit down.

  Even the flunkeys at the supermarket wear gloves and bow when you approach.

  I shit thee not.

  First few times, you’re a Londoner, think he’s taking the piss, might have to bang him up side the head. No, straight up, it’s the real deal. What happens is, you get used to it. I mean, even the bar-girls, before they suck you off, ask permission. Like you’re going to say no?

  Then you get back to Blighty, the cricket’s gone to shit, Beckham has yet another ridiculous hairstyle, and the first person you meet goes:

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Got me thinking.

  Then my old man died and you know what? He was a gent. For real. Treated people with dignity and respect.

  What’d it get him?

  Rotten lungs and a fucking tin-plated pocket-watch, they really broke the bank on that one. My inheritance. Course, with his insides all messed up, he didn’t get out. Once, two years ago, he’d managed to get to the local shop. Took him a time on the way back, with his Racing Post and Cadbury’s Flake, he got mugged. Feisty old bugger, he fought back, that old English spirit of Dunkirk and ‘Having a go.’ Four teenagers, two of them girls, gave him a serious kicking.

  Broke a bone in his face.

  Bone.

  When I’m on the streets, I watch the teens, watch for a group of four.

  On my list, a cluster fuck.

  Have a special adapted spray in a metal container. It’s got acid in there, and a hint of ammonia plus a sprinkle of patchouli to add freshness to the carnage. Old hippies never die, they just molt.

  I’ll term it… delousing.

  Newton Thornberg, Cutter and Bone.

  Do yourself a favour, get down to Murder One on Charing Cross Road, buy it. You’ll get a trace of who I am, where I’m coming from.

  See all that Jonathan Franzen, Salman Rushdie stuff on your shelf, all those wanna-be Booker Prize contenders gathering dust, all that earnest shit: BIN IT.

  Get real, buddy.

  You wanna know how the world works, get Andrew Vachss.

  Not intellectual enough?

  Get James Sallis, he’ll fry your cells. Or for downright metaphysical, Paul Auster.

  Crime writing, bro, it’s the new rock ‘n’ roll.

  Oh, I kept my word.

  Offed a broad on Fri.

  I was coming along the Kennington Park Road and a black cab pulled up, a woman got out, and the language of her. She was calling the cabbie every obscenity in the book. Then she flung the fare at him, brushed past me, nearly toppling me, so I thought, ‘uh-oh.’ Followed her, and she was on her cell, roaring at some underling. She turned into a large office building, and I was right behind. Up in the elevator, her giving large to some poor bastard all the time.

  Off at the tenth floor and storms into an open-plan area, employees keeping their heads down, not wanting to meet her eyes, which was just fine with me. Slammed into an office and before she could bang the door, I was there. She glared at me, spat:

  Who the hell are you? The tradesmen’s entrance is at the rear.

  I slapped her in the mouth, got a fistful of her hair, and dragged her to the window, opened it, and threw her out. I said:

  ‘Learn some manners, you bitch.’

  And then I just strolled on out of there. No one noticed me, no one called:

  ‘Hey, what are you doing?’ I mean this shit is so easy, talk about shooting fish in a barrel.

  You ever hear a quote and you’re not sure who said it, answer ‘Mark Twain,’ and 90 percent of the time, you’ll be right. He seems to have said everything at least once. The rest was uttered by Oscar Wilde. Straight up, Twain did say:

  ‘If the desire to kill and the opportunity to kill came always together, who would escape hanging?’

  The first one, the guy, came about almost by accident. I was in Waterloo station, sitting in the cafe having a latte, and at the next table were a man and woman. He was berating her in a fashion that was astonishing. Like this:

  ‘You stupid cow, how could you forget the messages? I told you a hundred times, get the bloody things.’

  And it got worse. I won’t trouble you with the vile stuff he said, it was in the vein of the above, only cruder. The woman finally got up, tears in her eyes, and fled. The other people in the place did what we all do, pretended not to notice, and so the likes of that prick flourish. I followed him out and he went to wait on the platform; the Brighton train was late and he was leaning over, muttering about British Rail. I came up behind him, pushed. Seemed kind of poetic.

  There you have it, the first two, the grand beginning. Oops, there’s the doorbell, probably my girl. More on her later.

  It depends on a complete assurance that a punch on the nose will not be the reply.

  — The Raymond Chandler Papers: Selected Letters and Nonfiction, 1909–1959, edited by Tom Hiney and Frank MacShane

  5

  Falls was dressed for school, pressed her uniform, gave her sensible shoes a serious buff, examined herself in the mirror, grimaced as she discovered some new lines round her eyes. Tried opening them wide, worse, it seemed to deepen the ridges. Got in her makeup bag, covered them fast.

  She was on her second coffee, no sugar.

  Recently, her weight had begun to climb, and for one mad moment, she’d thought:

  Ah, the hell with it, I’ll score some snow, solve the whole deal.

  The madness passed. Sure, she’d lose weight and:

  Her job

  Her home

  Her mind.

  Had been round that block more than once. A slice of Danish was perched beside the coffee-pot. Moving fast, she grabbed it, slung it in the bin, shouted:

  ‘See if I care.’

  A pile of notes, outlining the talk she should give at the school, was on the floor. She’d read them once, the very first paragraph proposed:

  ‘The officer should immediately establish a rapport with the students.’

  Yeah, right.

  Like tell them where to score some Grade-A dope.

  The wanker had obviously never heard of Brixton Comprehensive, the first on Falls’s list. The ‘students’ were usually armed-knives, bottles, bats, sharpened combs-and the only rapport they sought was with the local crack dealer.

  Falls knew the assignment was one step from the street. The urge to chuck, to walk, was overpowering. But, like Brant, the job was in her blood. Despite the previous years of disaster, she still got a buzz from being a cop. Nothing on earth equalled the rush of hitting the street. Brant knew, had said:

  ‘You’re an adrenaline junkie and no matter what rolls down the pike, this is the only work that gets your mojo cranking.’

  A horn beeped, McDonald. She grabbed the notes, useless as they were, took a longing look at the Danish, headed out. A battered Volvo was at the kerb, McDonald behind the wheel. If she’d expected civility, she’d be waiting. She got in, said:

  ‘Morning.’

  Tried to put some warmth behind it. He gave her a look of withering contempt, muttered: ‘Yeah, whatever.’

  And hit the ignition, burned rubber, blasted into traffic. Falls studied him as he drove. A shot cop is a gone cop, so police lore said. Had to agree when you saw the compressed lips of McDonald. A native of Edinburgh, he’d been a hot-looking guy, women referring to him as ‘that hunk.’

  Not no more.

  He’d aged overnight, strands of grey in his once luxurious hair. Deep lines along his cheeks, and a habit of grinding his teeth. Add to this a simmering rage, and he was almost a Brant clone.

  Without the smarts.

  Falls wondered why he didn’t jack. The humiliation of
being partnered with her was like neon in his eyes, writ mean. She asked as they pulled up outside the school:

  ‘You want to run through this?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘For the kids, maybe lay down a plan of action.’

  He turned off the engine, snapped at the keys, said:

  ‘Here’s a plan, fuck ‘em.’

  Falls, in her previous case, had had a one-night fling with a lethal female bomber. She tried to blot out the memory. As they approached the school, he suddenly stopped, asked:

  ‘Is it true you slept with that cunt?’

  If he’d pulled a knife, stuck it in her guts, he couldn’t have wounded her more. Inside, kids were roaring and running along the halls. The scene looked like Bedlam unleashed. Falls wished she was armed. And the first person she’d shoot was McDonald. A middle-aged black woman, weariness leaking from every pore, approached, asked:

  ‘Is there a problem, Officers?’

  She didn’t address McDonald, but stared at Falls, black sisterhood in her eyes.

  Falls said:

  ‘We’re here for the “Meet the Kids” scheme.’

  The woman smiled, not from humour, but along the lines of ‘You’re not serious.’

  She held out her hand, said:

  ‘I’m Mrs Trent.’

  McDonald ignored her, and Falls took her hand, felt the wetness that acute stress brings, said:

  ‘Delighted to meet you.’

  She offered tea and McDonald went:

  ‘Can we get on with this?’

  They could.

  The class was composed of mainly black teenagers, a few Asians, and two whites. The atmosphere was hostility on speed. McDonald positioned himself at the back of the room. Falls had no choice but to go behind the desk, and try a cheery ‘Hi, y’all.’

  No response.

  She got out the useless notes, began:

  ‘The modern police force…’

  And narrowly missed her eye being taken out by a flying missile. The class dissolved in guffaws as she lost her composure, began:

  ‘Who threw that?’

  One of the white kids, a wannabe Eminem who had to work harder to impress the black kids, sniggered, said;

  ‘Bin Laden.’

  Falls looked to McDonald, who was staring at his feet, as if he was someplace else.

  He probably was.

  Falls turned back to the class, said:

  ‘We are not the enemy’

  The white guy shouted:

  ‘No, you’re just a cunt.’

  McDonald was off his feet, sprinted to the desk, got the guy by the hair, and back-handed him twice, said:

  ‘Shut your mouth.’

  There was a stunned silence. The kid had tears in his eyes and McDonald stared at him, said:

  ‘Hey tough guy, you peed your pants.’

  The black guys began to applaud, and McDonald bowed, said:

  ‘That’s police work.’

  He then moved to the top of the class, Falls moving quickly aside, and he asked:

  ‘Anyone want to know about the first fucker I shot?’

  The rest of the session was a huge success and when they were done, the kids clamoured around McDonald, asking when he’d return.

  As they left the school, the principal hurried over, said:

  ‘What on earth did you say? They loved you.’

  McDonald gave a smile, Brant-like in its cunning, said:

  ‘I slapped one round the ear-hole.’

  She gave the tolerant grin they learn in teacher training, based on grim fortitude, said:

  ‘No, seriously though, if you ever give up police work, you have a real gift for communication. Might I get you some refreshments?’

  No, they had to get on. The woman was still smiling as they drove away.

  Falls asked:

  ‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’

  McDonald was attempting to overtake an articulated lorry but glanced at her, said:

  ‘Doing? I thought I was saving your ass, that’s what I thought I was doing.’

  As he got by the lorry, he leant forward to give the finger to the driver, seemed delighted at the rage in the man’s face. Falls said:

  ‘You could cost us our jobs if that kid makes a complaint.’

  McDonald gave a snort, which is a very difficult thing to achieve, you have to be very pissed off or nuts, then he said:

  ‘Jobs! You call what we’re doing work. It’s the fucking scrapings of the barrel, no one gives a toss what we do. A snotty-nosed wanker in a school in Brixton, you think anyone cares what he says? Get with the game, Falls. When the brass realize we’re doing well, they’ll take us off the detail, shaft some other bugger.’

  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Worse, she recognized the kernel of truth there, said:

  ‘Yeah, and when did you get to know so much?’

  What she was most bothered by was she’d admired his handling of the kid. She’d been panicked and now, now, for heaven’s sake, she was beginning to feel hot for McDonald. Jesus, where did that come from? She hadn’t felt attracted to anyone since Nelson, and he’d turned out to be a wash-out. McDonald was considering her question, answered:

  ‘Where did I learn this? I’ll tell you, getting shot helps.’

  He paused as if he was reliving the moment when the gun had been in his face and the guy had pulled the trigger, added:

  ‘I used to think, God help me, I used to think policing was about protecting them.’

  He was gliding the car smoothly into a space, his eyes narrowed in concentration, and she prompted:

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I now know it’s about protecting us, usually from them.’

  They were out of the car and she felt an actual weakness at the knees as she took full stock of him, ventured:

  You want to maybe get a drink or something later?’

  A plane droned overhead and he looked up, then:

  ‘You mean like a date?’

  So okay, she wanted him and hadn’t they just pulled it off as a team, so she smiled, softened her features, said:

  ‘Yeah, why not. I could cook something. It’s been awhile since I got domestic’

  He gave her his full blue eyes attention, said:

  ‘Thing is, I don’t fuck lesbians.’

  “Play dead? Play dead? What the fuck’s that all about? You want a dead broad, you just kill the bitch that way, you don’t gotta pay her either.”

  — Nick Tosches, In the Hand of Dante.

  6

  Porter had gone into the pub and spotted Trevor straight away. He’d ordered a vodka and tonic, slimline, and got a full smile. Checked out the guy’s butt and thought:

  ‘Mmm.’

  Trevor was changing a barrel and pushed that butt out to max effect, then looked up, asked:

  ‘See anything you like?’

  Took it from there. Porter hadn’t been with anyone for ages and the sex was thus fast and fevered. Trevor, lying back in Porter’s bed, asked:

  ‘What, you just got out of prison?’

  Porter gave a laugh, went:

  ‘Hardly, I’m a cop.’

  Trevor, familiar with the workings of the Met, said:

  ‘They don’t go to prison?’

  ‘Not this one.’

  So the relationship began. Trevor on leaving, with cab fare from Porter, said:

  ‘I’m not a quick shag, I want something meaningful.’

  So did Porter.

  He didn’t get back to Trevor for a time as he’d launched a full investigation into accidents during the previous weeks and, sure enough, two fit the so-called ‘hits’ that Ford claimed. The media had run with the story, proclaiming:

  MANNERS PSYCHO ON LOOSE.

  They were treating it more as filler, didn’t really believe it was true. For this Porter was grateful; he’d a bad feeling that this was going to get very serious. Witnesses were none. Family and work colleagues of the two
did concede that both victims were:

  ‘… difficult, inclined to rudeness.’

  The Super had Porter in again, asked:

  ‘Is it true, did he kill two people?’

  Porter moved cautiously, stammered:

  ‘It’s pos-sible, but we’re still checking.’

  Brown wasn’t impressed, shouted:

  ‘What’s with the stuttering, is that a gay thing, a type of lisp coyness?’

  Porter had to bite down, went:

  ‘Sorry, sir, when I’m nervous, it happens.’

  The Super looked as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, shook his head, said:

  ‘Get it sorted. I don’t want this to escalate.’

  Porter took a deep breath, ventured:

  ‘Should we consider a task force?’

  The Super rose out of his chair, a very bad sign, pointed his finger, and said:

  ‘Task force? Are you bonkers? It’s some piddling lunatic trying to get his moment of fame. Shut him down now.’

  Porter wanted to ask: ‘How?’

  Settled for:

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Outside he realized he was sweating, used a hankie to wipe his brow, and heard:

  ‘Hot enough for you?’

  Brant.

  Porter tried to shrug it off, said:

  ‘It’s this Manners case. Probably nothing.’

  Brant smiled, then:

  ‘You ask me, it’s going to run and run.’

  Porter, horrified, said:

  You can’t be serious.’

  ‘Serious as AIDS.’

  And was gone.

  Brant was on a roll. He and Roberts had gone to meet with Caz, the snitch. Met him in a pub; as usual he was wearing a garish shirt. He wasn’t happy that Brant had broken the rules and brought along Roberts. The whole fragile basis of snitching depended on one-to-one.

  Brant was unfazed, said:

  ‘So I broke the rules, get over it.’

  Roberts was unimpressed with Caz and expected it to be a waste of time. He was wrong. When Brant asked about the car-ring, Caz not only knew about it but provided the address of the garage where the operation was and the names of the three central villains. Brant sat back and said:

  ‘Nice one, Caz.’