‘What, you brewing them? Get your tush in here.’
She grabbed the beers and headed back. He’d put on his trousers, which was a relief, and he tapped the coffee table, said:
‘Plant them here, babe.’
She stared at the table, apparently lost. He asked:
‘You deaf? Plonk them on here.’
‘You don’t have coasters?’
He leant over, grabbed a can, popped the tab, gulped half, belched, said:
‘If you’re not having that, slide it on over.’
She pulled the top, took a ladylike sip. This amused him and he asked:
‘Teach you that at finishing school?’
She looked at him, said:
‘Yeah, the Mile End Road. They’re real big on etiquette.’
He finished the beer, crushed the can and lobbed it over his shoulder, asked:
‘Got any smokes?’
She tried not to sigh, got her handbag, threw over a pack. He caught it, cursed.
‘Silk Cut? The fuck are those?’
‘’Cos of my chest.’
He tore off the filter, said:
‘You standing there? Light me up.’
The phone rang. Brant reached over, grabbed it, said:
‘Yo?’
‘Brant, it’s Roberts, we’ve got a situation.’
Brant winked at the hooker, said:
‘Just had me a situation, too.’
‘I don’t doubt it. Can you get down here?’
‘On my way.’
He stood up, stretched, and the hooker asked:
‘How long have we known each other?’
‘Whoa… who’s counting?’
‘So, did I ever ask you for anything? Not once, not even a few quid?’
He mimed horror, said:
‘You mean you were faking, it wasn’t love?’
‘There’s a guy, name of Millovitz, some European geezer, he’s been beating the girls at the Oval, says they’ll get hurt bad if they don’t pay him weekly. One of the girls, he broke her nose and in this game, that drives value way down.’
Brant selected a pair of tan cords and sparkling white shirt, pulled out a stolen police federation tie, did it up in a Windsor knot. He sat, pulled on heavy work boots then selected a short black raincoat. The wardrobe was open and she could see a ton of new clothes, still with tags on. She could see they were designer labels and what they said to her was money, lots of money. Brant smiled, said:
‘Fell off a lorry, know what I mean?’
She didn’t answer, Brant did a twirl, asked:
‘What do you think? See me on the street, would you get hot?’
She thought she’d get the hell away — everything about him screamed cop. She gave a weak smile, Brant reached down, touched his toes, said:
‘Listen.’
He rapped his knuckle and a dull zing sounded. Straightening, he said:
‘Steel caps. So what time does this shithead usually make an appearance?’
4
Around the table were Porter Nash, PC McDonald, Brant, assorted plain-clothes officers and, at the top, Chief Inspector Roberts. One of the detectives asked:
‘What’s the PC doing here?’
Roberts looked to Brant who gave a lazy smile, said:
‘You’ll be wanting tea, coffee…’
The guy unsure, glanced round for help, none was forthcoming so he said:
‘Yes, sure… ‘course.’
Brant nodded at McDonald, said:
‘There’s your tea-boy.’
A round of sniggers and McDonald glared at Brant who winked. Roberts coughed, then:
‘Okay, settle down. We’ve got a bomber and according to the Bomb Squad, we’re dealing with an amateur. Which is not to say people might not get hurt. In fact, with them, it’s more dangerous than professionals as they don’t know what they’re doing. I want blanket door-to-door interviews, computer printout of any individual with any connection to dynamite or blasting, enquiries to building sites to see if any explosive’s been stolen. Get out on the street, get me something. Any questions?’
Porter put up his hand, asked:
‘What’s the deal on the money demand?’
‘There’s no deal. The Super says no payment.’
Porter raised his eyebrows, said:
‘Then we can expect another blast.’
‘Not if we catch them first, okay? Now let’s get moving. Sergeant Brant, a word please.’
As they filed out, Brant said to McDonald:
‘Mug of tea, two sugars… oh, and a wedge of danish… that’s a good boy.’
After they’d gone, Roberts shut the door, said:
‘The Super doesn’t want you in on this.’
Brant looked round the room, studied the range of ‘No Smoking’ signs then pulled out his Weights, fired up, blew a cloud at them, answered:
‘So, what else is new?’
‘She hoped he was burning in hell. What she’d done, she’d done for Loretta and for the sake of having a little fun, a pretty scarce commodity for a woman with a small child and no husband.
She wasn’t sorry for any of it. Not for one goddamn minute of it.
5
Falls Had had a shitty day.
As regards the bomber, which was currently A-list, she was out of the loop. Her past connections to the principals — Brant, Roberts, Porter Nash — hadn’t cut any ice. Even the mundane crap, the bottom-feeder stuff, like the door-to-door slog, didn’t include her.
She’d managed to catch Roberts alone in the canteen, a rare moment for the man heading up the hunt and asked:
‘Join you for a sec, guv?’
He hadn’t quite rebuffed her but it was in the neighbourhood, said:
‘I don’t have a whole load of time.’
She wanted to shout:
‘You shithead, when your wife died and you climbed into a vat of red wine, who pulled you out… who had a whole lot of time then?’
But went with:
‘I won’t keep you, sir.’
As she sat, he glanced at his watch. There are many ways to say Hey, you’re no longer a player but this has the benefit of being the shortest. You also get to see the time. Nervous, she almost unconsciously reached for her smokes and he asked:
‘You’re not thinking of smoking are you, not into my face?’
Closed her bag, said:
“Course not, sir.’
Wondering when exactly he’d made the leap to complete prick. Worse, he was tapping the fingers of his right hand on the table and snapped:
‘What is it, Falls? I’m not a mind reader.’
‘Ahm, yes… right, I was wondering… if I might, er, help in the current investigation?’
He stared at her, appeared truly astonished, said:
‘Don’t you know you’re under a cloud? I mean, surely you realise your very job is hanging by a thread?’
‘I thought, sir, that… thought all that was behind me.’
He stood up, straightened his tie, ran his fingers through his hair and without looking at her, said:
‘You thought wrong.’
And was gone.
6
Brant checked his watch: ten after ten. He was parked about a hundred yards from the Oval tube in a side road to the left of St Mark’s Church. During the day, a drinking school holds sway. Bottles of ‘white lady’ are the drink, if not of choice, definitely of necessity. Usually pure methylated spirit, sometimes it’s spiked with cider. Get a blend of tastes going. Come night, the hookers set up shop and a steady stream of cars cruise the patch. Though not on the scale of King’s Cross, it’s a steady enterprise.
Brant clocked the makes of cars, almost all in good condition. Not hurting for cash but obviously lacking in balance. Few things as hazardous as street sex and not just the risk of diseases but, he supposed, it all added to the rush.
Around eleven, a van pulled up, parked on the kerb. A white van, not unlike the one every American law enforcement agency was looking for in the Washington sniper case a few years back. A tall blond guy wearing a cream leather jacket (to accessorise the van?) and black combat pants climbed out. His hair thick and long, poured over his upturned collar. Brant muttered: