After he’d gone Patel slammed the counter in frustration. He considered again making the call to Scotland Yard.
Brant lived in a council flat in Kennington. On the third floor, it was a one-bedroom basic unit. He kept it tidy in case he scored. One marriage behind him, he was out to nail anything that moved. Roberts’ wife was his current obsession. As a trophy fuck she couldn’t be bettered. Plus, as he said: ‘A pair of knockers on her like gazooms.’
One wall was devoted entirely to books. All of Ed McBain, the 87th Precinct stories. Two shelves were given to the Matthew Hope series — a less successful enterprise for the said writer. The lower shelf was Evan Hunter, including The Blackboard Jungle.
Brant liked to think he had thus the three faces of the author. The 87th’s went all the way back to the original Penguin editions. Brant kicked off his shoes, opened a Special and drank deep, gasped: ‘Bloody lovely, worth every penny.’ He settled in an armchair and begun to muse on a White Arrest. First he picked up the phone — get the priorities right.
‘Yo, Pizza Express, account number 936. Yeah, that’s it, bring me the pepperoni special. Sure, family size.’ And then he thought — go for it, do the line they use in every movie: ‘And hold the anchovies. Sure, before Tuesday. OK.’
Back to his musing. There were no two ways about it:
One: Roberts was fucked. Two: The station was fucked and he was poised to be the worst fucked of all. All his little perks, minor scams, interrogation techniques, his attitude, guaranteed he’d be shafted before the year was out. A grand sweep of the Met was coming and they were top of the list. Unless… Unless they pulled off the big one, the legendary White Arrest that every copper dreamed about. The veritable Oscar, the Nobel Prize of criminology. Like nailing the Yorkshire Ripper or finding shit-head Lucan. It would clear the books, put you on page one, get you on them chat shows. Have Littlejohn kiss yer arse, ah!
He crushed the can in excitement. Jeez, even his missus would want back.
The doorbell went, crushing his fantasy. A young kid with the pizza. He checked his order form: ‘Brant, right? Family size pepperoni?’
‘That’s it, boyo.’
The list was rechecked and then the kid said: ‘It’s to go on a slab?’
‘Slate, son, but hey, I was all ready to pay. However, I will if they insist!’
He took possession of the pizza. ‘Oh yeah, you deserve a tip don’t you?’
‘If you wish, mister.’
‘Don’t do it without condoms.’
And he shut the door, waited. Moments later, a halfhearted kick hit the door. He was delighted. ‘Good lad, that’s the spirit — now clear off before I put my boot in yer hole.’
After eating most of the meal, he had to open his trousers to breathe and could hardly get the beer down. He hit the remote just in time for The Simpsons. Later he’d catch Beavis and Butthead. He thought: ‘Top of the world, Ma.’
‘All of us that started the game with a crooked cue… that wanted so much and got so little that meant so good and did so bad. All of us.’ Jim Thompson
Jacko Mary was living proof of the adage ‘Never trust a man with two first names.’ He was a snitch. Not a very good one. But the vast machinery of policing needs a few key ingredients: a) Ignorance, b) Complicity, c) Poor wages, d) Snitches. Or so the received wisdom goes. He was what the Americans call ‘of challenged stature’. He was short. And he fuckin’ hated that. Roberts met him at the Hole in the Wall at Waterloo. The very walls here testified to serious, no-shit drinking. A toasted sandwich and a milk stout on the table before Jacko. He said: ‘Afternoon, Guv.’
‘Whatever.’
‘You want anything, Guv?’
‘Information.’
Jacko looked hurt, said: ‘Can’t we be civil?’
‘You’re a snitch, I’m a policemen, ain’t no civility there.’
Roberts spoke more harshly than he felt, as he had affection for Jacko, not a huge liking, but in the ballpark. The snitch seemed different but Roberts couldn’t quite identify the reason, then he noticed a badge on his coat, two ribbons intertwined, one gold one pink.
‘What’s that?’
‘Oh, it’s for people who’ve had cancer.’
Too late, Roberts realised what was different. Jacko was renowned for his head of jet black hair. So dark it looked dyed. Now huge clumps were missing and Roberts wondered if he was losing his grip. Now he didn’t know what to say, said: ‘I dunno what to say.’
Jacko touched the top of his head. ‘It’s coming out in clumps. Every time I comb it there’s more on the bleeding brush than on the head. It’s the chemo what does it.’
‘Ahm … lemmie get you a drink.’
‘Naw, won’t help me hair. The doctors say it’s non-invasive, know what it means?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Not spreading. It’s a nice expression, though, don’t you fink? Like cancer with a bit o’ manners.’
Roberts wanted to go, screw the chance of information, but he felt he should at least make an effort. So he said: ‘Don’t suppose you can tell me where to find the lunatic who’s wasting the cricket team?’
‘Naw, don’t really do nutters. Mind you, there’s two crazy brothers in Brixton might be worth a roust.’
‘Who are they, then?’
‘The Lee brothers, Kevin and Albert. Word on the street is they’ve come into heavy action.’
Roberts tried not to scoff. But a note of condescension crept into his voice. ‘Small time, Jacko. I know their form. Strictly nickel and dime.’
‘I dunno Guv, there’s — ’
But Roberts cut him off. ‘Sorry Jacko, when you’ve been at this game as long as I have, you develop a nose.’
Then he rooted in his jacket and produced a few notes, apologising: ‘It’s a bit short, Jacko.’
Jacko Mary gave a huge laugh. ‘You’re talking to me about short?’
Clue like
Penny was losing it. Tried not to scream at Fiona Roberts as she asked: ‘You’re saying you won’t come to the CA with me?’
‘Not today Pen, I’m up to my eyes.’
‘I need you, Fiona.’
‘I can’t, honestly. Let me call you tomorrow, we’ll arrange coffee.’
‘Jeez, I can’t wait. Thanks a bunch, girlfriend!’
And she slammed the phone down and thought: I could hate that cow. Well, OK then, I’ll go shoplifting.’
Thing was, she was a very bad shoplifter. But if she resented Fiona, she out-and-out loathed Jane Fonda. She had admired Jane as the American Bardot and heavily envied her. Then she’d held her breath during the hard Jane bit. Had been in awe during the years of ‘serious’ actress. Had the hots for her when she was fit and forty. Began to resent a tad how fabulous she was at fifty. Screamed ‘bitch’ when she sold out at sixty to a billionaire and became one more trophy wife in the Trump tradition.
Penny had been in Hatchards of Piccadilly when a hot flash hit and she’d fled in search of cool air. Outside the Trocadero, she realised she’d stolen a book. There was Jane on the cover. A cookbook. Oh shame! And worse. She hadn’t even written it but borrowed recipes from her THREE chefs. THREE! Count ’em and weep. She’d slung the book at a Big Issue vendor. The man had taken it well, shouted: ‘Saw the movie.’
Restless, irritated, pacing, she tried to watch breakfast TV. A gaggle of gorgeous blonde bimbos were discussing the merits of being ‘childfree’.
‘Hold the bloody phones/ she screeched. ‘When did we go from being childless to this hip shit?’
A child, the woe of her aching heart and the biological clock hadn’t so much stopped as simply run into nothingness.
Upstairs she had a wardrobe full of baby clothes. These weren’t stolen. She’d bought each item slow and pained, and paid a lot of money.
‘E’ is not for Ecstasy