Next day Tommy got a prison make-over. Had one of the cissies dye his hair black using polish and gel. Got it sleek and raven. After, he let the cissy go down and came quickly. A few minutes later he beat the cissy to pulp, shouting, ‘I hate fucking queers, man I just fucking hate ’em.’
On Tommy’s release he didn’t go back to north London. He headed south-east and became Tommy Logan, adopted a half-assed Irish accent and thought it passed for humour. To complete the transition, he got a heavy gold Claddagh ring and ordered bottles of Guinness in public. It worked for Daniel Day Lewis. His music of choice was Sinead O’Connor. He believed her to be openly psychotic. Her songs sang to him of
violence
pay-back
fuck you-all.
The current favourite was Troy, where her Dublin accent lashed full and lethal. Jaysus, he couldn’t get enough of it. To hear Tommy sing the chorus with Sinead was to understand Armageddon. When she grew her hair again, he was a tad disappointed. To complete his Irish accreditation, his weapon of choice was a hurley. The national sport in Ireland, apart from talking, is hurling. A cross between hockey and homicide.
A hurley is made from ash and about the length of a baseball bat. Twice as lethal as it’s much handier to swing. You get one in your hands, you want to swing like a lunatic.
Every year the All Ireland Final was broadcast to London and Tommy relished every murderous minute. He’d spotted a poster of the Mayo team at an Irish dance and had it away. The team looked like a hardened bunch. Tommy imagined getting them behind you in the yard at Wormwood Scrubs and shouting ‘Up yah, boy.’
Jeez, what a rush. During the televised final, regardless of who the teams actually were, Tommy would shout, ‘C’mon Mayo’.
While this would have been much appreciated in Mayo, it tended to confuse elsewhere. Tommy made his pile with crack cocaine. Got right into the very bases and wielded intimidation from the off. Knowing no limits, he grew into major league.
Bill Preston had been top of the south-east for a decade and when he took off, Tommy was next in line. His motto was:
The only good witness is a dead witness.
And his lack of jail time proved it. On the climb up, Tommy learned about care, caution, planning, and the best solicitors.
Front everything.
Hide
Hide
Hide
Start a company daily and muddle your tracks. A high profile led to heat and Tommy was beginning to appreciate the value of stealth. His one major weakness was his temper. He hadn’t yet learned to control it. Tony Roberts was proof of that.
Wake up
The Roebuck had, as Brant predicted, laid on a ‘grand spread’. Mountains of sandwiches. Cocktail sausages, nicely burnt. Lashings of tea, soup and, of course, plenty of booze.
Roberts was holding a cup of tea; he hadn’t tasted it. Falls prepared a plate of food, brought it over. He shook his head, she urged, ‘They’re very good, sir, try one of those lads.’
‘No … thank you.’
Brant came over, nodded to Falls, and she backed off. Brant took the tea from Roberts, put a glass there instead, said, ‘It’s Irish, kick like a bastard.’
‘OK, Tom.’
The others looked round.
Tom!
It never occurred to them Brant had a Christian name. His expression told them they best forget it. PC McDonald was a tall blond Scot. Falls might have felt an attraction if he wasn’t so … smug. He was wolfing down food and she asked, ‘Missed breakfast?’
He gave her a glorious smile. It was a winner, he’d been told and often made women weak at the knees. She said, ‘You’re the rising star.’
Now he was modest, toned down the smile wattage, said, ‘I got lucky.’
‘Word has it you’ll get Brant’s stripes.’
‘Oh I dunno, would I be up to his rep’?’
Now Falls treated him to her smile. All teeth and absolutely no warmth, said, ‘You’ve got that right.’
He grabbed a napkin, carefully wiped his mouth, and she thought, Uh-oh, all the moves.
He touched her arm, said, ‘When we’re done here, I wonder would you like to come back to my place?’
‘When we’re done here-you mean scoffed the food, then we’ll scarper?’ He decided to play, prove he could be a fun guy, said, ‘Yeah … sound good?’
She moved his hand away, asked, ‘And back there we’d do what exactly?’ The full smile now.
‘Oh, something will come up, eh?’
She looked full at his crotch, said, ‘If we waited for that to come up, we’d be here all week.’ And moved away.
McDonald considered following but then grabbed another sandwich, muttered, ‘Cold cunt.’
Brant and Roberts had moved to a table, a line of empty shot glasses on the counter. Roberts said, ‘God, that’s a strong drink.’
‘Aye, takes the edge off.’
They laughed at that notion. The drink hasn’t been invented that keeps the edge off. Still, they’d enjoy the reprise.
Brant asked, ‘What the medical examiner say, guv?’
Roberts had to shake himself, focus on where he was, said, ‘That he’d been beaten with a stick … maybe a club, broke every bone in his body. A systematic beating was how he described it. Took a while. Took a while.’
They digested that, then Roberts asked, ‘What d’ya think, a baseball job?’
‘Could be a hurley, guv.’
Roberts nodded, then, ‘I know who did it.’
‘Jesus, guv, are you serious?’
‘Tony told me before he died.’
‘And you haven’t told anybody.’
Roberts raised an eyebrow, said, ‘I’m telling you.’ And he did.
When he was finished, Brant whistled, said, ‘This is what they call synchronicity, I think.’
‘What?’
‘Sting had a song about it … well he would, wouldn’t he? You know, like coincidence.’
Roberts was lost, said, ‘I’m lost.’
Brant was almost excited. ‘Guv, I’ve a new informant and guess who he says is the new kid on the block?’
Now Roberts gave a bleak smile. ‘Mr Logan?’
‘Bingo!’
Roberts stood up, swayed and Brant asked, ‘We’re going to get him now?’
‘Oh no, that’s something I want to do properly. I want to savour it. I’m going to get some more of that Irish.’
Brant sat back, said, ‘That’s the spirit, guv.’
Private investigation
Rosie, a WPC, was Falls’ best friend. When she heard of Falls’ new assignment, she snorted: ‘They had me on that.’
‘What?’ Rosie laughed.
‘Did the Super tell you he’d picked you specially.’
Falls was mortified, considered lying but thought, What the hell? Said, ‘Yeah, he gave me that whole crock.’
‘Set you up in Clapham?’
‘Uh-oh.’
‘Girl, they’re shitting you, when there were three victims, they weren’t sure he specifically targeted black women, so they put my white ass on the line. I hung out in clubs, pubs till my Jack said he’d get a divorce.’
‘Did you talk to the victims?’
‘Honey, they’re black … are they gonna open up to a white girl-a white po-lees girl? Sure, where you been girl?’
As she spoke, she realised, and tried to counter, ‘Oh gawd, I mean … I’m a stupid cow, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK. Anything else?’
‘Well, they got in a profiler … just like the telly. He said the attacker was a white male in his thirties and that the violence would escalate. It has. He used the knife last time almost as if he were working up to a kill.’
She shuddered and said, ‘Don’t do it girl, say you’re not completely recovered.’
Falls gave her the look and Rosie said, ‘Please be extra careful.’
‘I will, I promise, so there.’
‘You know that rape is about hate, not sex.’
‘I read the report.’
‘Oh … and here’s you lettin’ me prattle on. Then you know about the garlic.’