The man drove them to Canary Wharf, asking:
‘You’re not in a hurry old bean, are you?’
Not if he was being paid and, as if reading his thoughts, the guy said:
‘You will, of course, be amply rewarded for your time.’
Terry got a good look at him, sneakily, of course, didn’t pay to be too inquisitive. He wondered if the guy was a messenger but doubted it, he had the air of being the main contractor, Terry was surprised, usually, all sorts of middle men were involved. The guy brought the car to a smooth stop on the wharf, asked:
‘Are you at all cognisant with Detective Sergeant Brant?’
Cognisant?
Fuck.
He said:
‘Who isn’t?’
The man gave a loud laugh, far too loud and forced for what was essentially a simple truthful reply. He said:
‘Touche, well said, my learned friend. It means we won’t have to bandy words with explanations, motivations, not that you much care for motive, am I correct in my wild assumption?’
Terry had to concentrate to follow what the bastard was actually saying. He settled for ‘Yeah.’
Truth was, the guy was kind of creepy. You knew if you touched him-and who’d want to? — he’d be ice cold. The guy took out a slim gold cigarette case, extracted a long cigarillo, offered the case, and Terry shook his head. The guy asked:
‘Mind if I indulge?’
Like it would matter
Terry said, letting a slight hint of impatience in there:
‘Your dime, mate.’
The man mimicked.
‘ “Mate.” I like it, gives that working-class zing of authenticity, methinks you have sly humour there, mon ami.’
He lit the cig with a gold Zippo, the clink of the lighter sounding loud and final. He blew out a cloud of smoke, said:
‘Well, to business, you’re a busy man I’m sure, I’ll pay you ten large to… remove the aforementioned chap. Two now and the rest on completion.’
Terry felt it was time to take control, said:
‘Oh oh, I get half up front.’
The guy turned in his seat, let Terry see his eyes, washed out blue, as if they’d been bleached. He said in a tone of pure ice:
‘I don’t negotiate with the help. You usually get five for the whole performance, I’m doubling your fee.’
Terry was intimidated but then moved in his seat, the Browning in his belt giving him balls, said:
‘He’s a cop, a very high-profile one.’
The guy lowered his window, tossed the cig, said:
‘Get out.’
Terry had to decide fast, went with:
‘Three now.’
The guy was staring straight ahead, repeated:
‘I don’t negotiate.’
Terry thought, fuck it, and said:
‘Okay.’
Then Terry fucked it up, emptied a whole clip at Brant and the word was, the bastard was still alive, in Intensive Care sure but… not dead. And now Terry had to meet with the posh geezer. Didn’t figure he’d be getting the rest of his money. He’d reloaded the Browning, jammed it in his jacket, and went to the Clapham Road to wait.
The BMW was right on time and he got in, his excuses ready and his pledge to finish the job and… and fuck.
To his amazement, the guy was breezy, asked:
‘And how are we today?’
He sounded downright cheerful, maybe he’d heard Brant croaked? You never knew in this biz, luck, rarely, evident but just possible. He let his tension ease a notch, said:
‘Bit of a cock-up, alas.’
The guy laughed, actually tapped Terry’s knee, said:
‘Hey, no problem, my man. Could happen to the best of us.’
Terry wondered if the guy was a fruit, a lot of these Public School guys, buggery was part of the curriculum. They were heading for Canary Wharf again. The guy eased the car into a space, looked round, said:
‘No prying eyes, one must practise due diligence.’
Terry told him of how the unexpected had happened and the customer had knocked his aim off. The guy listening, his face conveying understanding. Then he asked:
‘You have the weapon with you?’
Terry wasn’t sure where this was going, said:
‘Am, yeah.’
‘May I see it?’
Terry took the weapon out and the guy put out his hand, saying:
‘I trust it’s primed, reloaded?’
Reluctantly, Terry let go of the gun, said:
‘Of course.’
The guy examined it, said:
‘Seems to be fine, must be you.’
Took Terry a moment, then he said:
‘I’ll put it right, don’t you worry about that.’
The guy gave him a full look, asked:
‘Do I look worried to you?’ Then he shot Terry three times in the stomach, said:
‘See, nothing wrong with it.’
Terry saw the blood seep out of his belly, ruining his good jeans, and he knew they’d be a bitch to clean, the guy said:
‘Gut shot, they say it’s agony, are they right?’
They were.
Then the guy leaned over, shoved Terry on the ground, and got out himself, he said:
‘Call this early retirement and here’s your bonus.’
Puttwo more in Terry’s skull. Stared at the body, said:
‘Golly gosh, that is messy.’
Hegot back in the car, eased into first gear, backed up, then drove carefully away. He was humming the theme from the Bridge over the River Kwai, always a favourite of his.
6
McDonald was freezing his nuts off. The cold weather had come with a goddamn vengeance and no matter where he stood, the cold seemed to seek him out, lash him. He was outside the Shopping Centre in Balham, wondering if he’d risk hopping off for a coffee when a group of hoodies passed, teenagers with the hoods pulled up to cover their faces. You couldn’t tell if they were male or female. As they moved by, one of them spat on his shoes.
He lost it, grabbed the figure, dashed him against the wall, said:
‘You want to play games, how’d you like this one, called headbanging.’
He let go and the hood had slipped, revealing a girl, in her late teens, her forehead pouring blood, one of the boys whined:
‘Why’d you do that?’
McDonald smiled, said:
‘Because I can, now get the hell out of here.’
They slumped off, muttering darkly. A pensioner had been watching and McDonald figured, here we go, the old geezer will report me. Did he care? Not a lot. The man said:
‘Let me shake your hand.’
And did.
McDonald was astonished, said:
‘Thank you.’
The man beamed, said:
‘That’s the spirit that put the Great in Britain.’
McDonald asked:
‘Fancy a cup of tea, a bacon sarnie?’
Roberts and Porter were still at the hospital, a doctor approached, asked:
‘Who’s the ranking officer?’
He was looking at Porter, as if he knew it was him, so Porter, said:
‘That would be Chief Inspector Roberts here.’
The doctor was disappointed, sighed, said to Roberts:
‘We’ve got the bullet out and he will be okay, but we’re keeping him in Intensive Care for twenty-four hours, purely precautionary.’
Roberts let his chest relax, didn’t realise how tight he’d been holding himself, Porter said:
‘Thank Christ.’
The doctor asked:
‘Has his family been informed?’
Before Porter could speak, Roberts said:
‘We’re his family’.
The doctor thought, poor bastard, and Roberts asked him:
‘What about headaches?’
The doctor was puzzled, said:
‘He was shot in the back, I don’t think it will necessarily cause headaches.’
Roberts stared at him, said:
‘Not Brant. Me, my head is opening.’
The doctor paused, then:
‘You’ll find a pharmacy on the ground floor.’
And stomped off
Roberts said:
‘Pompous bugger.’
Porter said:
‘The superintendent hasn’t shown.’