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  Caz, fingering his gold medallion, asked:

  ‘Do I get paid now?’

  Brant nodded, said:

  ‘The cheque’s in the post.’

  And they were out of there. Roberts had been scoring a hundred out of a hundred of his cases recently. No matter what he turned to, it seemed he had the Midas touch. Now, yet again, he was about to look gold. When the cops raided the garage for the hot cars, the first one they recovered was the Super’s. He took Brant for a celebratory drink a few nights later. They went to a place on Charing Cross Road, newly opened. The owner was an ex-cop, and, whatever else, they’d drink free.

  Roberts, to celebrate his success, had splurged on a new suit, bought in Marks and Spencer. He felt it was only right as their fortunes had recently taken a turn for the best. Winners together. He selected a brown pin-striped number as the salesgirl, who appeared to be from Bosnia, assured him it was the style of the season. He winced a little at the price, but what the hell, the sale of his house had given him a little extra and promotion was surely but a stripe away.

  Brant appeared in a sweat-shirt that bore the logo: EAT SHIT.

  And stone-faded jeans that had a tiny hole in the knee. Roberts said:

  ‘You’re bloody kidding.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I thought we were doing a class number?’

  Brant fingered a tiny pin of a silver bird on his sweat-shirt, mocked:

  ‘Ah, Guv, you think class is about clothes?’

  He was forever hectoring Roberts that class was about exactly that, which was one of the reasons Roberts had laid out the small ransom for his suit. The ex-cop, waiting patiently behind the bar, smiled at the exchange. He knew all about Brant. Mainly that he was a contrary fucker. He was appalled that Roberts was wearing what appeared to be a shit-coloured suit. Brant looked to him, went:

  ‘Jim-bo, a pint of your best ale for the star of the Met and a large Jameson.’

  Roberts whined: ‘I’m drinking beer?’

  Brant, who was reaching for his Peter Jacksons, said:

  ‘Sir, in that outfit, I’m afraid it has to be beer.’

  Roberts was offended, asked:

  ‘You don’t like the suit?’

  Brant gave it a full, intense scrutiny, and, his lip curled. He said:

  ‘You really shouldn’t buy stuff in the market.’

  ‘Market? This is from Marks and Spencer. Do you know how much this cost?’

  He could hardly get the words out from rage.

  Brant reached over, felt the lapel, said:

  ‘No wonder the shop is gone down the tubes. Was it on special offer?’

  Roberts gulped down half the pint, said:

  ‘Well, at least I’m not wearing torn jeans.’

  Lame, he knew it was a poor retort. Brant fingered the hole in his jeans, seemed delighted with it, said:

  ‘Bullet-hole, sir, line of duty and all that.’

  There were times Roberts truly hated Brant, wanted to put a fist hard in his mouth and beat on him for an hour. This was one of those times. He said to the barman:

  ‘Give me a large Bells and another of those Irish things for him.’

  Brant was still staring at the suit, said:

  ‘Don’t worry, sir, the light in here, people won’t see it too well.’

  Roberts lashed down the scotch, said:

  ‘Gee, that’s a real help. What’s with the bloody silver bird on your sweatshirt?’

  Brant touched the pin with what appeared to be real affection, said:

  ‘That’s the laughing kookaburra.’

  Roberts was seriously sorry he’d asked, went:

  ‘Like that is supposed to make sense?’

  ‘Aussie, sir, gets its name from its call, which sounds like mad laughter, a member of the kingfisher family, lives off snakes, mice, and lizards.”

  Roberts thought it was a good description of Brant. They took a seat and Brant immediately put the chat on two women nearby. As always, Roberts was amazed at how women responded to him, couldn’t they see what a pig he was.

  Nope.

  Next minute they’d joined them and Roberts was sitting beside a fine woman with a see-through blouse. He could never figure out if you were supposed to look or keep your eyes averted. Brant solved the dilemma by saying:

  ‘Lady you are stacked. Is that the wonders of Wonderbra or just you?’

  She was delighted and Roberts knew if he’d ever in his wildest dreams said anything similar, he’d have had a drink flung in his face. The second woman seemed as wild as Brant, which is saying something. She asked what they did. Brant said they were accountants to huge laughter from the women, which encouraged Brant to add:

  ‘A suit like my mate’s, one of the perks of the job.’

  A long, dizzy conversation focused on the merits of said suit and Roberts resolved to burn the bloody thing. When the women excused themselves to go to the ladies, Brant said:

  ‘You’re in for a ride there, sir.’

  Roberts, determined to score some point in the evening, asked:

  And what if I don’t want-as you so delicately term it-the “ride”?’

  Brant was middrink, putting away double Jameson’s like a good ‘un, paused, seemed puzzled, then:

  ‘You’ll have to, just to prove a point.’

  ‘Point? What bloody point?’

  ‘To prove you’re not gay’

  ‘What the hell are you saying?’

  Brant seemed genuinely confused, said:

  ‘I told them you were gay, and they said you’d have to be to get away with such an outrageous suit.’

  Roberts was reeling. There were so many reasons to wallop Brant he didn’t know where to begin, so he weakly croaked:

  ‘Why on earth would you tell them I’m gay?’

  ‘Tactics, sir. See, women love a challenge, you owe me, pal.’

  The women returned, more booze and then a late-night dancing club.

  Dancing.

  Yeah, Roberts attempting to revive the dying art of jiving, Brant at the edge of the dance floor, a sardonic smile in place and his hand up the woman’s dress, almost as an afterthought. Then Soho for dawn kebabs, which is the very worst idea on a feast of booze but seemed mandatory. Later, Roberts would recall hot, sweaty sex and veritable gymnastics from himself. When he surfaced the next day, around two, the very first thing he saw was his crumpled suit looking like elephants had stampeded it, and in the lapel a shining beacon, the bloody kookaburra, and he was definitely laughing. Roberts had bought a tiny maisonette on the Kennington Park Road, with a minute garden at the rear. Dying from his hangover, he’d dragged himself there and set fire to the suit, it burned fiercely as if it didn’t wish to go lightly into the good day. The pin, alas, refused to catch fire.

  ‘FULL AS A GOOG.’

  Extremely drunk. Comes from the Scottish word ‘goggie,’ a child’s word for egg. It is a variation on an earlier Australian phase in the same sense, full as a tick.’ Later combinations include full as a Bourke Street tram’ and full as a bull’s bum.’

  7

  Falls was off the school detail, as McDonald had predicted. Because they did well, they were quickly transferred. McDonald was shunted to traffic, and Falls was behind a desk doing paperwork. Stuck in a tiny cubbyhole in the basement, her job was to sift through old cases, see if there was anything needed updating.

  A nothing task.

  Even if she found a case that might benefit from review, there wasn’t a hope in hell that it would get attention. The squad was up to its neck in current stuff, so an old file wasn’t going to be considered. Everyone knew she’d been banished. Her only hope was to bide her time and see if a chance came down the pike. She gritted her teeth, half missed the schools.

  WPC Andrews was relatively new, had been under Falls’s wing for a time, and then done well. Brant had given her a turn, as he did all the new women, then dropped her. She was now on foot patrol in Clapham. She’d reported for wor
k and heard about Falls in the dungeon, as the basement was known.

  She got a tea and a slice of Danish from the canteen, headed down there. Met Brant, who asked:

  ‘What, you’re a waitress now?’

  She wanted to roar:

  ‘Why didn’t you call me like you promised?’

  But knowing he had lost whatever interest he’d had, said:

  ‘It’s for Falls.’

  He smirked, said:

  ‘She’s a loser. You don’t want to hang with her, get tainted with failure.’

  She had to fight the urge to toss the tea in his smug face, tried to rally, said:

  ‘She’s my friend.’

  He gave a short, nasty laugh, went:

  ‘Falls doesn’t have any friends. You want to get ahead, get shot of her.’

  Then he moved on, whistling the theme from The Sopranos and doing a surprisingly fine rendition. In the basement she approached Falls, who was near hidden behind a mountain of files, said:

  ‘Hiya.’

  Put the tea and Danish on the desk like a peace offering. Falls stared at the pastry like it was a bomb, said:

  You think I can eat that?’

  When Andrews didn’t answer, Falls looked at her. Only a woman would see that beneath the make-up was a bruise under her left eye. She asked:

  ‘What’s the deal on the eye?’

  Andrews involuntarily reached her hand to it, then said:

  ‘McDonald took me for a drink.’

  Falls waited and when Andrews said nothing more, she asked:

  ‘What, he bought you a drink then slugged you, that it?’

  Andrews wanted to cry and thought, Wouldn’t that be just bloody dandy. Two female cops in the basement, weeping. Like a very bad episode of Cagney and Lacey She said.

  ‘He didn’t mean it, but he’s under a lot of pressure.’

  Falls had heard this a thousand times. The ones who didn’t mean it were the most lethal, usually the killers. She’d been to the Rape Crisis Centre where such stories were the currency. She sighed, asked:

  ‘Are you going to see him again?’

  Andrews was tempted to lie, but if she did and Falls found out… so she said:

  ‘He wants to take me out on Friday, make it up to me.’

  ‘Yeah, this time he’ll do it right, put you in the hospital.’

  Andrews protested, said:

  ‘No, he’s promised and it only happened because he was shot. Normally he’s a fun guy’

  Falls let it go, asked:

  ‘Was there anything else? The work I’m doing is vital to the safety of London.’

  Andrews looked at Falls’s face, the bitterness appalled her and she thought that maybe she should have listened to Brant. She began to move away, said:

  ‘Well, if you need anything?’

  Falls said:

  ‘Need? What could I possibly need? My cup overfloweth.’

  It was late in the evening, Brant was standing outside the station, dragging deep on a cig. Falls approached, asked:

  ‘Sarge, got a minute?’

  He looked at his watch, she noticed it was a Rolex and probably not a fake, he said:

  ‘59 seconds and counting.’

  She had considered many different ways of couching her request but decided to go the direct route, said:

  ‘I need a knuckle-duster.’

  He was delighted, gave her his full attention, said:

  ‘Gee, aren’t they illegal?’

  She knew she’d have to dance, so tried:

  ‘I’ll owe you, of course.’

  He flicked the cig high in the air, watched the lit curve, then said:

  ‘Course you’ll owe me, you already do.’

  And he strode off without another word. She didn’t know if that meant okay or go fuck yourself or what. The constant dilemma with Brant, never knowing how he’d jump, the only certainty was he’d use the information to his own advantage.

  Lunchtime the following day she’d returned to her desk in the basement after a lame lunch in the canteen, a low-fat yoghurt and black tea. Sitting on her desk was a McDonald’s burger box. She thought, Andrews. Would it be a Big Mac or a cheeseburger, and more to the point, would she be able to resist it? She’d have to have a word with the woman, tell her to stop laying temptation in her path. Sitting down, she flicked open the tab and there, sitting on a burger bun, a fresh lettuce leaf adorning it, was a well-used knuckleduster. The irony of the brand-name on the box and the object inside made her smile for the first time in ages. She marvelled anew at the amount of insight Brant had; He knew stuff before you did yourself. She slipped the weapon into her bag.

  Roberts was in the pub, nursing a pint of Bitter, still hurting from his night on the tiles with Brant. The door opened and Porter Nash approached, asked:

  ‘May I join you, sir?’

  Roberts liked Porter, felt he was a fine cop and admired the way he handled his sexual orientation. Porter had been feeling extremely well, his relationship with Trevor was, not to pun too obviously, cruising, and the regular sex was positively rejuvenating. The only bad moment had been when, early in the morning, Trevor had found him with the hypo, asked, without too much shock:

  ‘You’re a junkie?’

  ‘Diabetic’

  Trevor thought about it, said:

  ‘Bummer.’

  Later, he’d asked:

  ‘Is it true that you have to be really careful about your feet, that if you get a cut, you could easily need amputation?’

  Porter had stressed that it was rare for such a scenario to happen, but Trevor had already lost interest.

  Porter now asked Roberts if he wanted a drink. He declined and Porter sat, said:

  ‘Can I run something by you?’

  Roberts nodded so Porter began:

  ‘You’ll know about this “Manner’s Killer” or alleged killer. I’ve been checking on recent accidents and two last week might be termed suspicious.’

  Roberts hadn’t touched his pint, seemed content to stare at it, said:

  ‘Tell me about them.’

  ‘One was a drowning in a bath, hard to say if it was an accident till we get the post-mortem to see if alcohol or drugs were present. The second was a hit and run. I interviewed work colleagues, friends, and guess what?’

  Roberts had familiarized himself with the case, lest he be called in, said:

  ‘They weren’t exactly the most popular people on the planet.’

  Porter was impressed, said:

  ‘Right, they were noted for their rudeness, treated the world like dirt.’

  Roberts digested the information, said:

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got a player.’

  Porter began to bite at his thumb, a habit he had managed to break, then said:

  ‘My big fear is another letter detailing those deaths. I’ve put the nom de plume, “Ford” in the computer and got thousands of hits but nothing usable, tried various acromyns, but zip.’

  Roberts stood up, said:

  ‘Well, you know one thing.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Sure, the guy likes to play. Did you ask Brant about the name? He’s got a way of cutting through the crap.’

  Then Roberts was gone, his pint barely untouched. Porter continued to worry his thumb. He hadn’t heard from Trevor in two days and wondered if the needles had spooked him. He decided to call round after work to the bedsit where Trevor lived. Meanwhile, he hoped like hell that the Super hadn’t gotten any mail.

  8

  McDonald was in the car pool, leaning against a van they used sometimes for surveillance. Falls approached and he eyed her with distaste. She moved right up to him, and he said:

  ‘Hey, you’re in my personal space.’

  She smiled, said:

  ‘Like a bit of rough, do you?’

  His eyes lit and he sneered:

  ‘What, tired of women already?’

  She looked round then pivoted, used her body weight to
swing her right hand, and hit him in the left eye with the knuckle-duster. He fell back against the van and she turned, walked away, saying:

  ‘That rough enough for you?’

  Said there’s always gonna be somebody out there killing bitches. Bitches and mo’ bitches is gonna be dying all over the damn place, till you-all up to your damn ass in dead bitches.

  — G. M. Ford, Fury

  9

  Cops like nothing better than a real shiner, a black eye in all its glory amuses them endlessly. So next day McDonald was taking a storm of stick. His story was he’d had a dispute with a motorist. No one believed it, and sure enough Brant came swaggering along, looked at him, said:

  ‘Motorists carrying knuckle-dusters, eh.’

  Which told McDonald where Falls had got the weapon, but of course he couldn’t say anything. Just add Brant yet again to his ultimate hit list. Then the Super summoned him and on hearing the motorist yarn asked:

  ‘And you arrested him?’

  ‘Mmm… In the confusion, he slipped away’

  Brown glared, went:

  ‘Forgetting something, are we, Constable?’

  ‘I didn’t get the registration, as I said…’

  Brown shouted:

  ‘Sir, I didn’t hear you say “sir” when you addressed me. Now I have to wonder if you’re really cut out for this line of work. You seem to be exceedingly accident prone, not a good trait for a policeman.’

  McDonald wanted to protest, say how he’d yet again been the innocent victim, but before he could even start to whine, the Super said:

  ‘Get out of my sight, have a look at the security ads, I hear they’ll hire any one.’

  The desk sergeant assigned him to the snarl of traffic on Balham High Road which, if not the highway to hell, was definitely the Road to Perdition. As McDonald slumped off, the sergeant roared:

  ‘And if someone wallops you, call the cops.’

  Brant was having a pint of Guinness, a ham sandwich curling alongside. The door opened and Falls came in, asked:

  ‘Can I sit?’

  ‘Sure, but can you fetch?’

  She sat. Brant indicated the sandwich, asked:

  ‘Hungry?’

  ‘Actually I brought you something.’