Calibre ib-6 Read online

  ‘Afraid? Of me? Hey, I’m a coward, nothing to fear here unless you want help and that’s when I leg it.’

  Wanted to weep and tried to think who he could call, no one, not a bloody soul.

  Falls, she’d fallen spectacularly from grace, yeah, she’d fucked up big time and more than once, and here she was, she’d got her shit together. How’d she do that? Could he pull off the same miracle?

  Towards evening, as it began to get dark, he headed towards Brixton, drawn back to the scene of his disgrace, turned into Coldharbour Lane. No one about. He looked over his shoulder and then went to the door, pushed hard and was in, stood in the hall for a moment and then entered Jamil’s flat.

  The yellow police tape on the door had already been stolen. He stood in the living room, closed his eyes, and could see Jamil level the gun at him, sweat poured from his brow. The whiskey he’d drank earlier had worn off, and he had a blinding headache. The flat was already tossed. The cops had only given it a surface search, but once they had Jamil, the impetus had shifted. McDonald began to search in earnest, doing the intensive sweep you only learned on the job. First he turned up a bag of coke, wedged in the freezer in a packet of fish fingers, plus a heavy gold bracelet. He had never done coke but knew the drill. Laid a line and used a five-pound note to snort, tickled his nose, and he thought he’d better do a few more to see what the fuss was about. Resumed his search and a few moments later was rocked as the dope hit. Felt the cold dribble along his throat and knew something heavy was happening, then he punched the air and said:

  ‘Alright motherfuckers.’

  And got the pure rush, had to stand still and let it wrap him in its embrace. The crystal-clear thinking began immediately. He felt strong, vibrant, the blood was singing in his veins and, speaking of songs, he wanted music. He found the remote control and faced the television. Wanted MTV and wanted it now. Chanced on the news, paused as the lead item was about a notorious p?dophile, Graham Picking who, due to a technicality, was being released from what had appeared to be a slamdunk case. A whole list of children he’d molested and the evidence had been damning, no grey areas. Looked like he was going down forever, but a crucial item of proof had been lost and now the whole case was being thrown out. The screen showed Picking being led out by his grim-faced lawyer, who had the expression of someone who’d lost. Picking was mugging and grinning for the cameras. Something in McDonald clicked and an idea began to form. Almost at the same time, he noticed the right end of the heavy carpet wasn’t quite solid. He’d never have seen it without the coke clarity, he was seeing a brave new world. Bent down and pulled at it, peeled it back and revealed two loose floorboards. Tore them up and BINGO… A wad of money, large denomination notes, plus more coke, and items of jewellery. McDonald selected a heavy gold bracelet, got it on his wrist, liked the feel of it, and the prize, a Sig Sauer P226, 9mm. He said:

  ‘Fucking A.’

  Which was something he’d never thought in his life, nevermind uttered. Lifted the gun and loved the weight, he checked it and noted it held fifteen rounds. A stash of bullets also and he racked the slide, put a round in the chamber, aimed at the screen. Picking’s face in his sights, whispered, ‘Sayonara, sucker.’

  Took him a real effort not to squeeze the trigger.

  A mistake done twice is not a mistake, It’s called failure.

  — Robert Evans, The Kid Stays in the Picture

  23

  Falls wanted to feel good about Andrews, tried to sell herself the sisterhood bullshit, when one woman succeeds, it’s a victory for all women. Yeah, right. She was in her tattered bathrobe, sipping at tea, her day off, the papers in front of her. Andrews was on the front page of most papers, even The Big Issue had a feature on the deal. What galled Falls was how fucking humble Andrews looked. And truth to tell, she sure did have a pretty face. Next thing she’d be doing the sergeant’s exam and talking about a shoo-in. Falls had failed it countless times. McDonald was sure fucked, though. Falls didn’t see how he could possibly even stay on the force, she knew he’d been suspended and an enquiry was due. The poor bastard was gone, and she’d been so close to the door herself, she felt for him. She almost regretted the black eye she’d given him. When she’d mentioned him to Brant, who could save almost anyone, being a survivor himself, he’d sneered, said:

  ‘He’s gone.’

  And Roberts, who’d been down the toilet a few times, who’d usually go to bat for a cop, had compressed his mouth in a hard line, said:

  ‘A yellow cop is a dead one.’

  She thought of giving McDonald a call and say what?

  ‘Tough shit, I hear security are always glad to employ a policeman.’

  Maybe ask him if he’d like to go out, have a few drinks, but God, what a night that’d be. No, scratch that. She detested McDonald, had had so much aggro with him, she’d lost count. But she hated to see any cop go down. She sighed, took a sip of the cold tea, and tried to figure out how she was going to rise to a level of congratulations for Andrews. She’d just begun to like her too, they’d shared a few memorable moments, but that was over now. You couldn’t hang with a hero, the light would blind you. Falls stood, picked up the papers, and dumped them in the trash.

  Crew was tired, trying to figure out his next move and stay ahead of the cops was exhausting. It was like he had to think for three, himself and the two cops. They were coming and that was a given. Plus he had to show up at the goddam office. Being the boss helped, but he still had some major league pissed-off people on the phone, going:

  ‘When am I getting my audit?’

  Accountancy shit and when money was involved, as it was here and heavy, the pissed-off factor rose accordingly.

  Wouldn’t it be grand, as the Micks say, if he could tell the truth, go:

  ‘Hey, I’m trying to kill people here, you wanna give me some fucking slack?’

  He was sorely tempted. And he had serious plans to implement if he was to win this game with the cops and stay out of the nick. His secretary, Linda, had been very upset:

  ‘Mr Crew, clients are demanding to know when they can get some time with you?’

  Demanding!

  That definitely was in the realm of bad manners. Wouldn’t that be a hoot, kill his client base. Certainly be a first. God knew, the majority of them needed killing. Money only seemed to bring out the very worst in folk. He’d reassured Linda he was on top of his game. Which particular one he didn’t specify. Mandy the treacherous cow, wasn’t taking his calls and wouldn’t answer the door either. Man, it would be a downright pleasure to punch her ticket. He locked himself in his office, began the process of escape. Took some time and when he emerged, exhausted, Linda was moaning, he said:

  ‘I believe it’s time we gave you a raise.’

  Shut her the fuck up, money rang the changes each and every time. Enough to make a chap cynical. He was always glad to get out of the city, the financial centre bored him. He liked money for what it could do but didn’t see it as sexy or hot the way these new young guys spoke about it. Once he went with a few of the youngbloods to a wine bar and they drooled over the amounts they made, the number of dots on a pay-cheque. One of them, seeing his disinterest, asked:

  ‘What gets you going, Crew?’

  As per public schoolboys’s rituals, they addressed you by your surname, which he considered the height of bad manners. He looked at the guy, a wanker in a very expensive suit, sweat under the arms of his Jermyn Street shirt, and replied:

  ‘I like to make a killing.’

  They conceded he was droll and never asked him again. He steered his BMW carefully under the limit, conscious now that any infringement of laws and they’d grab him. He eased the car safely into his drive and unbuckled the seat belt, looking forward to a scotch and soda and the quiet contemplation of his future. As soon as he opened the hall door, he knew something was wrong, the sense of stillness was gone, somebody had been here. Thinking:

  The bastards, breaking in while I’m at wor
k.

  Walked to the lounge and there was Brant, stretched out on the sofa, a glass balanced on his chest, cigarette dangling from his mouth. He turned, asked:

  ‘Hard day at the office, dear?’

  He dropped his briefcase from shock. Did they have him already? Brant was smiling, said:

  ‘Gave you a bit of a start there, eh?’

  Crew found his voice, asked:

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Intimidating you.’

  Crew couldn’t get a handle on it, tried:

  ‘You’re breaking and entering, unless I see a warrant.’

  Brant swung his legs off the sofa, said:

  ‘Boofhead.’

  Crew had no idea what this was, asked:

  ‘What?’

  ‘Aussie, mate, means a stupid person. Are you a stupid person?’

  Crew moved over to the phone, said:

  ‘I’m calling the police, there are rules against this sort of thing.’

  Brant said:

  ‘Touch the phone and I’ll break your arm.’

  Crew stopped, looked at him, went:

  Are you serious?’

  ‘Try me, shit-head.’

  Cew considered running for the door, going for help, but Brant moved and kicked the door shut, said:

  ‘Pour us a couple of stiff ones, there’s a good lad, and we’ll have a wee chin-wag.’

  It was the casual violence in Brant’s tone that was chilling, almost friendly, as if breaking your arm was a gesture of no consequence at all. Crew went to the drinks, poured two large Teachers, asked:

  ‘Ice?’

  Thinking, What am I doing? and thought, Stalling, playing for time.

  He put the drink in front of Brant and gulped down a swig of his own. Brant smiled at him with something like affection.

  Crew tried again:

  ‘This is ridiculous. You can’t just barge in, threaten me, and think you’ll get away with it.’

  Brant stood up, stretched, then took a hefty swig, said:

  ‘Ah, that hits the spot. You don’t know me, I take it, not my rep as they say. Well, it’s a bad one, I don’t play by the rules. They investigated me twice on suspicion of killing a suspect, as if I would. What I want you to know is, I know you’re the killer, but the problemo is, it’s going to be a bitch to prove it so I’m going to take you out of the picture.’

  Crew realized his glass was empty, gasped:

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going to kill you, and here’s the part you’ll appreciate, it’s going to seem an accident. Hey, what do you think, make it seem like the manners guy got you, wouldn’t that be a gas.’

  Crew tried to get a handle on this, said:

  You’re mad, this is insane.’

  Brant smiled, nodded, answered:

  ‘It is, isn’t it, right off the chart. But tell you what, that ugly hooker, don’t fret about her. I’ll drop by, put a bag over her head, and give her the odd poke for you. How does that sound? You happy enough with that?’

  Then he was heading for the door, added:

  ‘I know it’s a bastard when you don’t know when I’m going to do the deed, but I’ve a fairly intense program. If I fit you in before the end of the month, would that work for you?’ Then he was gone.

  Porter Nash shouted:

  ‘You did what?’

  He and Brant were in Porter’s flat, Brant had arrived with six cans of special and a bottle of wine, saying:

  ‘The wine’s for you. You guys like that shit, am I right?’

  Porter was about to sip the wine when Brant told him about Crew.

  Brant opened his second can, said:

  ‘What, you deaf? I told him I’d kill him.’

  Porter put the glass down, jumped to his feet, went:

  You can’t be serious?’

  Brant wondered why it was so many people were saying the same thing. Did they doubt his sincerity? He belched, asked:

  ‘Do you mean, did I seriously say that or do I seriously mean to kill him?’

  Porter tried not to notice Brant’s boots on his couch, it would be such a gay thing to comment. So said:

  ‘Both, for heaven’s sake. You can’t threaten him like that.’

  Brant was genuinely confused, asked:

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you’re a bloody policeman for crying out loud.’

  This made no sense to Brant, who said:

  ‘All the more reason.’

  Porter wondered, not for the first time, if Brant was truly insane. He’d seen enough evidence of it, but this, this was pushing the envelope way past any perimeter. Then an even worse thought hit and he asked:

  ‘You wouldn’t, oh-my-god, you wouldn’t take him out, I mean, come on?’

  Brant was opening his third can, getting a nice buzz going, adding to it was Porter’s tight-ass attitude. He hadn’t had much crack for a while, but this was more like it. Fucking with people. He wondered why mind-fucking had such a bad rep? He decided to push a little more, said:

  ‘If he got whacked, you think anyone would give a shit?’

  Porter downed a glass of wine. It went against all his sensibilities to gulp wine, but this was rot-gut. And besides, dealing with Brant you needed some fortification, if only to try and navigate the landscape of the absurd. He shuddered as the wine hit his empty stomach, and Brant smiled. Porter said:

  ‘Anything happens to Crew, I’m going to have to look closely at you, you’re aware of that?’

  Brant loved it. It was even better than he’d imagined, said:

  ‘You’re threatening your buddy, “your non-judgmental, even if you’re a fag” buddy?’

  Porter tried another tack, said:

  ‘He’ll report you, what then?’

  ‘Who’d believe him? I mean you’re having some difficulty and I’ve told you straight.’

  Porter threw his hands up in the air, it was like trying to talk to an alien, they were so obviously speaking different languages. Brant stood, said:

  ‘I gotta run, it’s been fun, but I’m knackered. You need to relax, you worry too much.’

  At the door, Porter asked:

  ‘Tell me you won’t do it?’

  Brant seemed to consider, then:

  ‘Well, it won’t be tonight. I’m too whacked. You need to be fresh for that line of work.’

  After Brant had gone, Porter poured the rest of the wine down the sink, brushed his teeth to rid himself of the taste. He thought about Trevor, and he missed his company. His sugar levels had been through the roof recently and the last visit to the doctor, he’d been told to cut down on stress. And wouldn’t you know it, the other day he’d been flicking the pages of the newspaper and, sure enough, came across a case of a man with diabetes who’d had to have his leg amputated. Stress that.

  He decided he needed to eat and set himself the task of peeling potatoes, cutting and washing vegetables, then lightly grilling a piece of fish he’d bought in Selfridges. Not too many cops shopped there, which was one of the reasons he went there regularly. In the kitchen he was struck by how everything he was doing was singular, all for one person, and that struck him as very, very sad. He continued with the task though he’d lost all energy for it. Went to his drinks cabinet and selected a nice dry white, cost a packet at the wine outlet. Used the corkscrew slowly and lovingly to extract the cork and let out a sigh as he heard the satisfying ‘plop.’ Went to a top shelf, got a heavy crystal glass, went to the sitting room, and laid the table with a linen cloth, then got the silver holder, lit the one red candle, stood back to admire his work. The fish was done and he carried it out, set the one place with care, put the cutlery just so, poured the wine, asked:

  ‘Is it as sir anticipated?’

  He stood back, gently took hold of one end of the linen top, and pulled with all his might, the whole lot crashing across the room, the crystal glass shattering in bits.

  Jamil was released on bail. The prosecutor lodged o
bjections, but the judge, mindful of McDonald’s actions and the huge press interest, allowed him to go. Outside the court, Jamil gave a speech to the TV, focusing on the injustices meted out to black people. McDonald watched at home, the Sig in his hand, three lines of coke in his system, and a fixed grin on his face. Flicked his wrist and the gold bracelet moved satisfyingly He said:

  ‘You’re fucked, you bastard, and you don’t even know it.’

  He had his plan prepared, it had taken him a coke-fuelled night to put it all together. He’d kill the child molester and put the gun back under Jamil’s floorboards, then he’d arrest Jamil, proving it was him who’d offed the child molester. This would show that McDonald was involved in, not only catching a killer, Jamil, but indirectly, the child molester. So okay, he knew there were a fair few holes in the scheme but overall, it was solid, the coke told him it was marvellous, and besides, he didn’t have a whole lot of other avenues to explore.

  His phone rang. He jumped and then took a deep breath, picked it up, heard:

  ‘McDonald, it’s Falls. I a… wanted to know if you were doing all right.’

  He was stunned she’d call, the last time he saw her, she’d walloped him and his impulse was to say go fuck yourself, but hey, he needed all the help he could get so he said:

  ‘I’m hanging in there.’

  Then figured sympathy would be good as he hadn’t had a shred of it to date, added:

  ‘It’s rough. I feel as if I’m falling apart.’

  She rose to the bait and he smiled as she gushed:

  ‘I know how you feel, I’ve been there and it’s the pits. Is there anything I can do?’

  McDonald focused, figured there might even be the pity fuck in this, and he’d always wanted to have the black bitch, all sorts of pay-offs were forming in his fevered mind so he said: