Below the headline was a photo of Barry, looking pensive, as if the world had grievously wronged him. A smaller photo of Dunphy was at the top of the page, looking simply furtive.
The highlights of the exclusive went like this:
‘Let me ask you straight out, Barry. Are you The Blitz?’
‘No way.’
‘Could you be more emphatic?’
‘I’m not The Blitz.’
‘Why did the police arrest you?’
‘Harold, I can understand their desperation. It’s a high profile case and they were desperate.’
‘But why you, Barry. Why did they pick you?’
‘I recently moved to Bayswater and, as we know, a young policeman was tragically killed in Hyde Park. I moved from south-east London, where a policeman was killed and like... duh!...they join the dots. It’s regrettable but, on one level, almost comprehensible.’
‘How were you treated?’
‘Alas, Harold, loath though I am to voice it, I was brutalised.’
‘Could you be more specific?’
‘They beat me... continuously.’
‘And you are taking legal action?’
‘Reluctantly. It goes against my most basic beliefs but lest another unfortunate should fall prey to what happened to me, I feel this action will ensure that the police are policed — if I might coin a phrase.’
‘The police to be policed, I like it. What now for Barry Weiss?’
‘I’m writing a book.’
‘I must say Barry, you seem remarkably free of bitterness.’
‘I’m not the type to hold a grudge. My personal philosophy is that you pick yourself up, dust yourself down and move on. If I might quote from Desiderata: “You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars, you have a right to be here”.’
‘Thank you, Barry. Good luck with the book.’
The interview was read by every cop in the city. Read and dumped.
A cop went into a hardware shop at the Elephant and Castle, bought nails, a screwdriver, paint and a heavy silver hammer with a black flexigrip handle. The other stuff was just cover — the cop only wanted the hammer.
Two nights later, Barry was still at his plush hotel. He was enjoying the benefits of fame. Drinking in the hotel bar, people had been staring and he acknowledged them with a self-depreciating smile. He’d practised it in the mirror, felt it displayed not only his magnetism but a wedge of humility. He’d downed at least half a dozen scotches — no more shitty lager from now on. When he got his key from reception, the girl gave him a warm smile. He figured he’d take a run at her tomorrow night. For now, he crinkled his eyes, let her juice on that. Along the corridor, he stumbled twice, said,
‘Whoops, fellah! Steady on there.’
He was figuring on calling room service, ordering one of those steak sandwiches — and hey! — maybe a bottle of champers. Why the hell not, push the envelope out? Maybe get hold of the night porter, get him to send a little action up. Took him three attempts to open the door. Finally tumbled in, was trying to remember where the light switch was, when an almighty blow crushed his right knee. As he fell back, the light went on. Through the pain, he gasped:
‘You!’
The cop swung again and took out most of Barry’s front teeth. Barry tried to crawl towards the phone and the cop walked alongside. Barry, through his ruined mouth, spluttered,
‘You’re...’
The hammer came down again.
Maxwell’s
Silver
Hammer
Porter had taken a table at the back. To his surprise, Brant had volunteered to buy the drinks. He arrived with a tray, a mess of pints and shorts. Porter asked,
‘Are we expecting company?’
‘Just you and me, bro’.’
Porter was going to object, then thought: The hell with it. Took a pint, drank deep.
Brant smiled, said,
‘See, you needed that.’
Porter took the shot glass, drained that and Brant said,
‘Whoa, give me a chance to catch up.’
Porter reached into his pocket, took out a book, laid it on the table.
The old Penguin edition.
Brant asked,
‘Did you read it?’
‘No, it didn’t seem appropriate.’
‘But you miss the point, Porter. McBain is always appropriate.’
Porter eyed him and Brant said,
‘Why don’t you just spit it out.’
‘What?’
‘Did I do it? Did I off that piece of shit?’
‘Did you?’
‘No, but I have my suspicions about you.’
‘I didn’t do it.’
Brant finished a pint, belched, asked,
‘So, let’s say we’re both innocent. Then who?’
‘Half the Met are suspects.’
Brant raised his glass, said,
‘Good riddance to bad rubbish.’
Porter didn’t drink, said,
‘McDonald was acting very strange. Told me he’d like to do Weiss himself.’
Brant thought about it, said,
‘No, he hasn’t the bottle. Whoever used the hammer almost demolished old Barry’s head. It was close work, real in close and personal. McDonald might be angry but he hasn’t that rage, yet. Give him a few more years.’
Porter took another pint, could feel the drink easing him down, asked,
‘You think they’ll get somebody for it?’
‘Let me put it this way, I don’t think they’ll bust their balls.’
Falls was having a bath, shouted to Nelson:
‘Fix yourself a drink, I’ll be a while.’
‘Okay.’
He noticed the sign he’d given her was lying on the table and figured he’d hang it for her. Went into the kitchen, rummaged in some drawers and found a decent-size nail. Now for something to hit the nail with. Looked round to no avail, saw the cupboard under the sink and hunkered down, opened it. A hammer, with a black flexigrip handle, was lying on a cloth. Pieces of hair and gore still clung to the head.
Falls shouted:
‘Hon’, you want to scrub my back?’
He stared at the weapon for a few minutes then shouted,
‘Just coming, love.’
And shut the cupboard door.