Crease that.
The same pair had very nearly taken Brant down too. She knew he felt responsible for the young cop’s death and odd times went to the grave. But would he ever talk about it, open up? Would he fuck. She’d washed her hair with L’Oréal something-or-other and it looked good. On the commercials, all those white chicks purring:
‘Because I’m worth it.’
She hated them. All that girly simpering shit, made her want to scream. Her drink was gone. How did that happen? The radio was tuned to a local Brixton station and here was Mary J Blige with ‘Family Affair’. Falls sang along, moved to the sofa and put on her black denim jacket, turned the collar up, checked herself in the mirror, said,
‘All — right!’
She’d put fresh sheets on the bed, in case... in case the night got away from her. The doorbell went. Before she opened, she checked through the peephole then, reassured, she turned the lock.
He had dressed up: dark navy suit, white shirt and tie, police shoes. Looking good, he held out chocolates and flowers, said,
‘I don’t know if people do this any more.’
‘They should, come in.’
He did a cop scan of the room, checking where the exits were. She asked,
‘Like a drink?’
‘Sure, give you time to get ready.’
‘I am ready.’
‘Oh... right.’
Poured him some Jack and a small one for herself, went,
‘Cheers.’
‘Yeah.’
He was off balance, his composure rattled, so she relented, said,
‘I can still change.’
‘No, you’re fine.’
When a man uses ‘fine’ to a woman, it’s like saying you’ve nice eyes, meaning you’re a dog but I’d better throw you something. He knocked back the drink and asked,
‘Ready?’
‘As ever.’
He was driving a Rover, impressed her by opening the door for her, then moved round to let himself in. As he put the car in gear, he asked:
‘Italian okay?’
‘Sure.’
‘I booked a place at the Elephant, it’s got a rep.’
‘But for what?’
And they both lightened up. The evening went well from there. They’d two bottles of wine with the food and he was well able to talk. Most cops, it’s shop talk and the job and... the job. He never mentioned their work, spoke about music, movies, travel. When the coffee came, he said,
‘You haven’t said a whole lot.’
‘I like listening to you.’
He gave her a full look, asked,
‘So, we might do it again?’
‘I’d say so.’
On the drive back to her place, she was anticipating him spending the night, the prospect sent a shiver through her. After he parked the car, he leant over and she closed her eyes in anticipation of the kiss.
Nothing happened.
He was unlocking her door, saying,
‘I had a really nice time, I’ll call you.’
She couldn’t believe it. Clean sheets, wild anticipation and he’d “Call her!”
She asked,
‘When?’
‘When what?’
‘When will you call me? Later to see if I’m safely tucked in? Tomorrow, next week... some bright day in August?’
‘Jeez, Falls. I...’
‘Look, Nelson, I’m too tired for games. A man says “I’ll call” and the woman begins the countdown, waiting and hoping. He thinks, tomorrow or Sunday, what’s the difference? Let me tell you, there’s a hell of a bloody difference.’
She began to get out, he said,
‘Tomorrow. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘Piss off.’
And slammed the door. He stared at her through the windscreen then put the car in gear, moved away. She wanted to call him back, muttered,
‘Dumb, dumb, dumb... shit.’
Began to rummage in her purse. Where were those bloody keys? Barry Weiss moved out of the shadows, hammer raised.
I was lighting us both a cigarette when he turned to me and said, ‘Sorry if I got cross, Morrie.’
‘That’s all right,’ I said.
‘Bit of an edge, I suppose.’
It was all very kosher and British.
‘Not surprising’ I said. ‘It’s been an angstful sort of night.’
The super was not pleased to see Roberts, especially as he was having his tea break. A daily ritual, he had two cups and two rich tea biscuits. What he liked to do was clear his desk, dunk the biscuits and slow dribble them into his mouth. Damn close to being the highlight of his day. He was mid-ribble when Roberts walked in. The Super, his head back, mouth wide — like Homer Simpson — was not a picture of leadership or authority. He near choked on being caught, went:
‘I didn’t hear you knock.’
Roberts launched:
‘You replaced me.’
‘What?’
‘Porter Nash is heading up the inquiry.’
‘You’re on compassionate leave.’
‘I’m back.’
The Super looked longingly at the tea, resolved to get Roberts out fast, asked,
‘How do you feel about early retirement?’
Roberts smiled bleakly, answered,
‘We’d miss you, sir.’
The Super told himself he was dealing with a lunatic. Hazel, the police shrink, had once told him that grief unhinges the mind. Here was the proof that Hazel knew his stuff, and who’d ever have thought he was a dipsomaniac? It was still a shock to realise that his own puppet McDonald had shafted him. He’d have to re-evaluate that young man. Now he straightened his back, tried for resolve, which he hoped he was famous for, said,
‘There are other urgent cases.’
‘I’ll take them.’
Surprised he hadn’t gotten an argument, the Super said in a reconciliatory tone,
‘Losing a wife isn’t easy.’
Roberts’ face lit up, he asked,
‘You lost your wife, sir?’
‘Well, no... I...’
‘Then, with all due respect, sir, how the hell would you know what it’s like?’
And then he was gone. Didn’t even wait to be dismissed. Skin had formed over the tea and the Super splashed the biscuit into it, said,
‘A lunatic, that’s for sure.’
Roberts went through the current cases. Christ, it was depressing. If it was war on the streets, the police had already lost. He flicked through accounts of rape, fraud, arson, burglary and considered going home. Let the tide of anarchy wash over them. Shook himself and selected a file at random.
Okay.
Pensioners were being targeted in their homes. An intruder broke in during the night, beat the occupant mercilessly and stole whatever money he could. The only description was that the assailant was white and in his twenties. Roberts put the file down, he saw McDonald cruise by, called to him, said,
‘Get me a map of Southwark.’
‘Now?’
‘Next Sunday? Course it’s now and be quick about it.’
He was.
Roberts looked up the addresses of those attacked and studied the pattern. McDonald, leaning over his shoulder, offered,
‘That’s a dead-end case, sir. I did the door-to-door myself, nothing came of it.’
Roberts took out his pen, made some marks on the map, said,
‘See those marks?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Those are the buildings where the pensioners live.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘Now, see how they almost circle this building here.’