He didn’t and she smiled to herself. There wasn’t a man alive who’d turn down sex, no matter how his instinct warned him.
She purred:
‘We’re going to have us a killer of an evening.’
‘He wore round steel-rimmed glasses that might have made someone else look like John Lennon.
Marshall didn’t look anything like Lennon; he looked like something that might have eaten Lennon.’
14
Porter Nash had decided he needed a change of image, had been working on it for a time. Got his hair cut short and had them add a few lines of grey, just a few discreet streaks. Worked well and, even better, nobody had ragged him. When you’re a cop, you daren’t make major changes without them thinking you’re on the take. You start to change your appearance and, to the cop mind, it says you’re hiding something.
The glasses though, now they’d been a mistake. He didn’t need them but he’d been watching a movie in which the guy had been wearing those steel-rimmed jobs, the type that made you look distinguished. Porter had got an identical pair and was well pleased, thought they gave an edge of seriousness with an overlay of hard-ass. Could you ask for more?
Then Brant, who else, had asked:
‘Who are you… the Walrus?’
Porter hadn’t got it until Brant had said:
‘The glasses, you look like John Lennon’s brother.’
Now he was on watch at Waterloo, keeping tabs on the left luggage office. One of the cops was staring at him, said:
‘Them glasses, you look like the Gestapo.’
That was it, he swiped them off, put them in his pocket and the cop had said:
‘Will you be able to see without them?’
Porter sighed, said:
‘There’s nothing to see, the office is closed. What are they going to do, break in?’
The cop shrugged. He had to spend the night anyway so he didn’t give a toss either way.
Porter went to get a coffee and was outraged at the price, said to the assistant:
‘That’s a bit steep.’
‘Yeah, this is a mainline station, what do you expect?’
Porter moved away, thinking everybody had an answer, none of them civil. He wondered where the hell Roberts was. Got out his phone, dialled the number. When it was answered, Porter could hardly hear for the background noise, asked:
‘Chief Inspector?’
‘Yes, is that you, Porter? Has there been some action?’
‘Ahm, no sir, all’s quiet. I was just checking in; er, are you at a party, sir?’
Brief flurry of talk, then Roberts bellowed:
‘A party, when there’s a major case in progress, are you out of your mind? Who’s got time to play?’
‘Sorry, sir, it just sounded busy where you are.’
‘’Course it’s busy, this is London, a busy town.’
And he rang off.
Porter muttered:
‘Drunk as a skunk.’
Porter Nash moved back to the watching position and asked the constable:
‘Anything?’
‘Not a button. You’d think there be more action in a train station.’
‘It’s Friday night, people have already gone home.’
The guy looked at Porter Nash, considered, then went for it:
‘That’s why they pay you the big bucks.’
Then to Porter’s amazement, the guy took out his cigarettes. Porter said:
‘Smoking? Tell me you’re kidding.’
He put them away and resolved to tell the guys that Porter was as tight-assed as they’d suspected.
When Roberts had followed Brant into the house at the Oval, he’d been near-deafened from the volume of the music. Worse, it sounded like that hip-hop his daughter listened to. The front room was jammed and Roberts realised it was all women. He asked Brant:
‘Aren’t there any men?’
‘I hope to fuck not.’
Someone pushed a drink into his hand and Brant, already with one, clinked glasses, said:
‘Bottoms up.’
Roberts took a large swig, felt the liquid near burn his throat, said to Brant:
‘Christ, what the hell is that?’
Brant had already finished his, was looking for a refill, peered into the glass, seemed to give it serious consideration, said:
‘I’d guess tequila, what? You wanted the whole deal? Salt and lime?’
Roberts put the glass aside, said:
‘No, a beer would have been nice.’
Brant was gone and a woman approached, said:
‘Are you Brant’s boss?’
Before he could reply, she laughed, said:
‘Dumb question, right? As if anybody was his boss.’
Roberts couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She was wearing one of those flimsy sheath dresses that barely covered anything. Large breasts were almost touching him, she had on killer heels and the whole outfit screamed SEX! She gave him a radiant smile, asked:
‘You want to go in the bedroom?’
Brant reappeared, a barrel over his shoulder. He carefully put it down and said:
‘Now, you’ve got beer. Stell, a glass for over here.’
Stell, who was wearing even less clothes than the one Roberts was leering at, brought a glass, bent down, got the barrel going and poured a half-pint with expertise. She handed it to Roberts and gave him what could only be called a come-on smile. Roberts grabbed Brant’s arm, pulled him over to a corner, said:
‘What the hell is going on? Some of these women look like hookers.’
Brant’s eyes were already glazed and he seemed confused by the question, said:
‘What do you mean?’
Roberts drained his glass, thought it was hot as hell in there, said:
‘I’m telling you, a woman just came on to me, like a hooker would.’
Brant was staring at him and Roberts said:
‘Did you hear me, I think there’s a hooker here.’
Now Brant laughed out loud, said:
‘They’re all hookers, it’s a hookers’ party.’
Roberts, who’d been in all sorts of bizarre situations with Brant, couldn’t believe it, said:
‘You’re fucking winding me up.’
Brant was unsure what Roberts’ dilemma was, so tried:
‘Didn’t I say you’d get laid?’
‘Yeah, but…’
‘Well, come on, guv, you don’t think normal women are going to give it up to a battered pair like us?’
Roberts didn’t know whether to act offended or outraged. A woman came, took his glass and refilled it; he didn’t object, nodded in a dazed way and Brant clapped his shoulder, said:
‘That’s the spirit.’
Roberts tried to get his head round the deal. He couldn’t. Brant was having himself a hell of a time.
Roberts asked:
‘This may seem a stupid question but why are we at a party thrown by hookers?’
Brant did seem to think it was a stupid question and took another huge drink then focused, said:
‘They owe me and wanted to show their appreciation, and trust me, guv, there is no better appreciation than that of a grateful hooker.’
Roberts put down his glass, tried to look like he was the boss, said:
‘I’ll have to go, we have a major case going down and I’m… what? Hanging out with hookers.’
Brant forced another drink into Roberts’ hand, nodded, said:
‘Tell you what, we give it ten minutes and then we’re history. What can happen in ten minutes, am I right?’
Reluctantly, Roberts agreed. Ten minutes was nothing and it wasn’t as if he was pissed or anything, though he did feel a slight buzz. Brant signalled to one of the women and indicated Roberts. She smiled, began to move in their direction. The music had increased in volume and a neighbour banged at the door to complain, said he was going to call the police. He was not happy to learn they were already present before the door was slammed in his face.
Someone passed a spliff to Brant and he muttered that he’d have to report drugs on the premises before he inhaled enough weed to put a smile on even Edwina Currie’s face.