‘Is that a question?’
Heard a snigger, someone in the background, then:
‘Naw, I like fucking with you. Lighten up, pal, these are the jokes. You’ll have had a second explosion?’
Roberts was furious, he felt chest pains, asked:
‘What happened to a warning? What happened to you calling about the money?’
More sniggers, then:
‘Tell you the truth, Rob, it got away from us. That ever happen to you? The truth is, we changed the rules. You want to know why?’
‘Why?’
‘’Cos we can.’
Roberts glanced round the room, saw the stone expressions, said:
‘You want payment, you’ll have to play by some rules.’
Silence and he thought the call had ended, then a harsher tone:
‘You fuck-face, you mind if I call you that? Not that it matters, you’re a messenger boy, got it? Your function is to act as bagman. We want six large.’
‘What?’
‘Two explosions — this shit is expensive. Time and money, you get my meaning? But hey, I can lighten up, cut you some slack. How would it be if I give you 48 hours, say Friday evening, round 6.00? I’ll give you a bell, that help at all?’
Roberts took a deep breath, tried to rein in his rage, said:
‘I’ll need more time.’
‘No can do, fellah.’
Click.
Roberts put the phone down, said:
‘See if there’s any hope of a trace. Not that I expect one.’
No trace.
9
Falls came to with a bad hangover. She was wearing a long old Snoopy T-shirt that had been washed so often the dog was no longer distinguishable. Her mouth was like a desert and she went to the kitchen, gulped a glass of water. It hit her stomach like ice and she retched, said:
‘That’s it, I’m never drinking again, least not on week nights.’
This was a familiar mantra: as comfortable as it was bogus. She began to boil some water, thinking tea would help, at least wake her up.
She was up for a new assignment. Word was that a new WPC was coming on board and Falls would be nursemaiding her. Of all the duties she loathed, this was the one she loathed most. All that enthusiasm, the high ideals and the spirit of camaraderie they expected. It was so fucking wearing. Then came the gradual erosion of energy and an initial disbelief that developed into full-blown cynicism. When they asked with that bright, fresh tone: ‘What am I to do?’ Falls longed to scream: ‘QUIT!’
Yeah, like they were ever going to believe her. Then Brant would come sniffing as he always did with the new ones and he’d turn on the full Celtic charm. Few could charm like that devil. She’d succumbed herself and more than once. He’d fuck them over every which way till Tuesday and they’d come back for more.
She dressed in her uniform and stood back to survey what she saw. A black woman dressed in the clothes of the enemy, that’s what a black man had told her in Brixton market. She’d tried to rationalise it, told him that at least this way they had help in the ranks, knew how weak she sounded and saw his lip curl with disdain. He rapped:
‘Yo be fooling your own self, girl.’
More and more, she was coming to believe he had been right. Using a brush, she flicked flecks of white off the tunic, and ran a hand through her frizzy hair. Once, in a moment of madness, she’d had all the kinks ironed out and that had hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.
Rosie had been alive then and when she’d seen the result, she’d wailed:
‘Oh, big mistake! Are you trying to pass for white?’
That hurt and in more ways than she’d ever admit. Rosie had been her best friend, a WPC on the ladder up. They’d called themselves the poor man’s Cagney and Lacey, and had shared the chauvinism they’d had to endure on a daily basis. Then one day Rosie had gone on a routine call, a domestic, hardly even worth writing up. The guy, a junkie with Aids, had bitten her. Tormented as to how she’d tell her husband, she’d slit her wrists and taken a long, hot bath; was dead before the water went cold. Falls had sworn then that she’d never get close to another cop, it was too risky.
She arrived early at the station and at the door, a fresh faced young woman in uniform eagerly approached, asking, ‘WPCFlass?’
Falls sighed, said:
‘You’re going to be a policewoman?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Then take the bloody time to get my name right.’
The woman was in those impossible early twenties, where they look barely sixteen. She had black hair cut short, brown eyes and a face that might have been described as pretty if you had three drinks behind you. The uniform disguised her shape but she seemed to be in good physical nick. It was the fresh-faced energy that annoyed Falls, the gung-ho, raring- to-go shit that they presented. Falls asked:
‘How did you know it was me?’
The woman looked back towards the desk sergeant, who was grinning from ear to ear, hesitated, and Falls said:
‘Spit it out, he told you to wait for the nigger, is that it? You want to work with me, you better get honest; I can’t stand lies.’
This was a little rich coming from Falls, who told lies all the time, but what the hell? The thing with young people is they tend to believe outrageous crap like that. The woman gave an uncertain smile, said:
‘He told me you’d be late… and that you’d be hung-over… oh, and that you were black as his shoe.’
Falls gave him the look, which he enjoyed immensely, the fuck even winked, and then she asked:
‘What’s your name?’
‘WPC Andrews.’
The pride with which she trotted it out was appalling and, worse, you knew she’d rehearsed it a hundred times, probably in front of a mirror. She’d have a family, a happy mum and dad who were so proud of their little girl. All the frigging neighbours would have turned out to wish her well and they’d watch The Bill with renewed vigour. Falls gave her the fixed stare, said:
‘One of the traits required of a police person is accuracy: an ability to actually listen to the question you are asked. Now let’s try again: what is your name, not your flaming rank and serial number, can you do that?
She could and said:
‘Patricia Andrews, but my friends call me Trish.’
This was much as Falls expected: stupidity and confidence, the worst combination there is. In jig time, of course, she’d be called Julie and every wag in the station would whistle ‘The Sound of Music’ at least once as she passed. Falls brushed past her, said:
‘Let’s get to the most important part of policing.’
Andrews was near gushing, went:
‘We’re going to get our assignment?’
‘No, we’re going to get tea.’
Falls led the way, a disappointed Andrews trailing behind. The canteen was full of uniformed officers who all turned to gawk at the new girl. Falls said:
‘You’ll need to know two things — the tea lady is named Gladys and the morons here call tea “a Sid Vicious” because in the movie Sid and Nancy, Gary Oldman tells his record exec to get a tea with two sugars and adds “Yah cunt”.’
Andrews didn’t understand this at all and Falls wasn’t sure she did either. Falls took a table and Andrews asked:
‘So do I ask Gladys for a Sid Vicious?’
‘No, you ask for two teas and a Club Milk.’
Andrews lightened and asked:
‘Oh, can I have a Club Milk too?’
‘It’s not for us, it’s for Brant.’
As Andrews approached the counter she glanced back at Falls and that’s when the bomb went off.
10
It was a small blast, only damaging the counter and Gladys’ nerves. But there was consternation in the canteen and men rushing for the exit. Brant appeared and moved quickly to the area, pulled Andrews clear, said:
‘Get the fuck out, there might be a second.’
The station was evacuated and the Bomb Squad arrived, as did the press. Cops were piled three lines deep outside and within a half-hour, the all-clear was given and the canteen sealed off for Forensics. A mobile catering van was ordered as the cops couldn’t — wouldn’t — work without a steady stream of tea. Andrews, her uniform covered in dust, was highly excited and blabbering like an idiot till Falls, exasperated, slapped her face, said: