‘What are you doing?’
‘Shopping.’
Falls pushed the trolley aside, asked,
‘What do you need... everything?’
‘Some red wine.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. We need to get the essentials.’
He wanted to say,
‘The wine is essential.’
But went with,
‘I’ll wait outside.’
He stood near the off-licence, wondering would he risk going for a bottle? A woman was passing, pulling a girl of eight or so by the hand. She stopped, rummaged in her bag, found some coins and shoved them at him, said in a testy tone,
‘That’s all the change I’ve got.’
And moved on, the little girl looking back, asking,
‘Mum, is that a wino?’
‘Sh... shu... shush, he’ll hear you.’
He stared at the coins in his hand, shock sneaking along his spine. Falls appeared, pushing a heavy trolley, shouted,
‘Give me a hand, eh?’
He put the coins in his pocket. Falls was driving a Daewoo, he asked,
‘This yours?’
‘Belongs to a neighbour, I do her shopping too.’
Opened the boot, began to put the stuff in, asked,
‘You all right?’
‘Never better.’
Back at his house, she surveyed the wreckage, asked,
‘Have you been camping here?’
He sank into a chair, said,
‘Give it a rest.’
She did.
He dozed, was awoken to the smell of cooking. The room was spotless. Falls handed him a mug, said,
‘It’s soup, you’re frozen.’
To his surprise, it was good, awakened his appetite. She provided French bread, slices of meat and he ate it all, said,
‘Christ, that was good.’
She gave a radiant smile. Lit up the whole room and he realised with astonishment that he’d almost never seen her do that. He said,
‘I think I’ll be okay now.’
Falls stared at him for a long moment, considered, then:
‘Yes, I think you just might.’
‘I’m going to sell this house.’
‘Great idea.’
‘You think?’
‘Yeah, who the fuck wants to live in Dulwich?’
‘I thought everybody did.’
He was genuinely astonished. She gave another of the smiles, asked,
‘How many black people do you know? I mean, as friends?’
‘Ahm...’
‘That’s what I thought.’
She got all his soiled clothes in the washing machine, warned,
‘Use fabric softener.’
‘Why?’
‘Jeez... men! Take it on trust, okay?’
She debated her next question, decided to risk it, went,
‘I need a favour.’
He watched her face, gauged the intensity, asked,
‘What?’
‘A kid I know is in trouble. I need to get him off the hook.’
‘Police trouble?’
‘Yes.’
‘How bad?’
‘He and his mates gave a guy a good kicking.’
‘And your interest is?’
Falls hung her head, her voice low, said,
‘The skinhead, remember him?’
‘Sure, he looked out for you when you went down the shitter.’
He paused, then exclaimed,
‘Aw no, tell me you cut him loose, what? You thought you could change him? Jesus, Falls, it’s him. He’s the one did the kicking? Aw, for crying out loud.’
A silence between them, she had no defence, leastways none that would sound reasonable. Roberts gave a deep throat clearance, then:
‘Okay, I’m not in any position to lecture you here. There’s a DI, he’ll know about it, he owes me from way back. His name is Nelson.’
‘Thanks, sir, I really appreciate...’
Roberts’ hand was up:
‘Don’t thank me yet, you haven’t met Nelson. He’s a piece of work; fact is, he makes Brant appear downright liberal.’
Get yourself a gay boyfriend! It’s fantastic.
They’re great cooks, they love shopping and
they’re really frightened of you.
Brant checked his notebook:
Barry Weiss, with an address in New Cross.
Brant decided to head home, shower, then pay a visit to the guy. By the time he got to his flat, he felt his mind begin its shut down. Inside, he made some tea, tried to focus on what he was to do first. Oh yeah, shower. He sat in the armchair, put the tea on the floor for easy reach. The TV was directly in front, he stared at the blank screen. The tea went cold, he didn’t move, just continued to stare at the screen.
Barry Weiss was in a phone kiosk, rang The Tabloid, got put through to the Dunphy, said,
‘There’s a fire at Sirinham Point. That’s Meadow Road... but a match from the Oval Cricket Ground.’
‘A fire?’
‘And you’ll want to know what your angle is?’
‘Ahm... yes... please.’
‘The second-floor flat, at the back, you’ll find number three. You can count, right?’
‘A third copper?’
‘Gee, no wonder you’re the crime capo. In case they start any nonsense about copycats, I used a new system.’
‘Can you elaborate?’
‘A hammer. Blunt enough for you? It was for him. I’ll be eating brains for a week.’
Click.
Dunphy was rewinding the tape when the phone went again. He grabbed it, heard
‘I thought of a name.’
‘Name?’
‘Is there an echo? Don’t keep repeating everything, it’s very annoying. “The Blitz”, like Blitzkreig, know how to spell that?’
‘Yes, but...’
‘It’s not negotiable.’
‘The other papers...’
‘Are shite, just do it.’
Click.
The Tabloid led with:
Brant, if he’d turned on the telly, would have found it top story on every channel. He didn’t. Continued to sit motionless, his mind a vacuum of white noise.
Porter was up to his arse in reporters, phones, leads, frustration. He shouted,
‘Where the hell is Brant?’
No one had seen him. A tabloid guy named Dunphy, who had tapes of the killer, was demanding an interview. Porter had ignored him. It took three days for Brant to appear. When he did, his face had the look of a man who had been to hell and only part ways returned. Porter said,
‘In the office. Now.’
Brant sat before the desk, his body language almost painful. Porter tried not to shout, went:
‘Where have you been?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘What?’
‘I can’t account for my movements. Isn’t that the jargon?’
A thought hit Porter and he asked,
‘You do know another policeman has been killed?’
Brant shook his head. Porter went to the door, grabbed a WPC, said,
‘Give us some teas. Oh, and two Club Milks.’
She stared at him and he said,
‘Did you hear me?’
‘Sir, in view of the Sexual Discrimination Act, just because I’m female...’
‘Get the fucking tea.’
She did.
Porter leant over Brant, said,
‘A sergeant, name of Cross.’
An expression flitted across Brant’s face. Porter would have been hard-pressed to label it. Was it shock, regret, pain? What it wasn’t was anger. Porter would have preferred that. He continued: