‘I see that, sir, but...’
‘Shut up. Any guess as to what that building is?’
‘Not offhand, sir.’
Roberts pushed back from the map, looked at McDonald, asked,
‘Ever wonder why you’re still a constable?’
‘Well, sir, I...’
‘Because you’re a sloppy bastard. You do the minimum and away home with you. Jeez, a traffic warden has more balls. That building is the main post office and what happens there, do you think?’
McDonald wanted to shrug and say,
‘Not a whole lot.’
But thought harder, then:
‘Pensions.’
‘Brilliant. So what you do is go there on the next payout day, watch for a white male in his twenties who’s loitering and then you get back to me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Okay, let’s see if we can solve another.’
Along the Walworth Road, people were being mugged for their mobile phones. Thing was, if the phones weren’t new, the mugger flung them back. Roberts said,
‘That’s not a crime, that’s a public service.’
Roberts couldn’t believe it, he was enjoying himself, the andrenalin rush was pure bliss. He said,
‘See McDonald, if you’d solved those two, you’d be on your way to sergeant.’
McDonald had never liked Roberts, now he hated him. Decided to brown-nose, maybe the superior prick would kick the credit for those cases his way. Said,
‘It’s a learning experience to watch a professional at work.’
Roberts let out a sigh, then:
‘I never actually believed people spoke like that. You certainly can’t have picked it up in Glasgow. What, you watch The Oprah Show, pick up a few pointers? Well, son, that might cut some ice with the Super but it don’t mean shit to me. Now, piss off and check out the post office.’
He opened another file. Young boys were being attacked on Clapham Common, usually on the way home from school. He made a note to arrange for a daily police patrol when the schools let out. It wouldn’t stop the attacks but it would definitely interrupt them. Standing up, he stretched, cast an eye on the pile of cases waiting, said,
‘At least I’ve dented them.’
Headed for the canteen. McDonald was there, wolfing a bacon sandwich. Roberts said,
‘Didn’t I tell you to go somewhere?’
‘Well yes, but I thought a bit of sustenance first.’
‘You thought wrong, get moving.’
McDonald began to pack away the food and Roberts barked:
‘Leave it.’
After the PC had skulked off, Roberts sat, realised he was hungry, checked the contents, Yeah, ketchup on double bacon slice and a hint of tomato. He took a healthy bite.
He said, ‘You get some bad news?’
She didn’t answer. Just kept looking like she was in some kind of state.
He said ‘Well’ and moved to the door. It was as he reached it, about to go out, he heard her say,
‘You followed him, didn’t you?’
Elvin kept going. There was no talking to an upset, emotional woman.
Barry Weiss had put all his weight behind the swing of the hammer. He wanted to nail this in one, heard a roar and a figure came hurtling at him, hitting him full-on. Barry went over, the figure on top of him. The woman was screaming. Barry managed to roll, came up in a crouch. The figure was a skinhead and as Barry registered this, he swung the hammer, connecting with the forehead, then he was up and running for all he was worth.
Falls wished the screaming would stop then realised it was her. Put a hand to her mouth and then slowly approached the figure on the ground. It was Metal. She tried for a pulse, couldn’t find one and heard the screaming again.
Porter and Brant were in Falls’ living room. A doctor had given her a sedative and she was sleeping. Brant found the bottle of Jack, poured one, offered it to Porter who shook his head, asked,
‘Should we be taking her booze?’
‘She won’t be counting.’
Brant knocked the drink back, grimaced then said,
‘I hate this shit.’
Porter didn’t know if he meant the situation or the drink, was too het up to care, said,
‘The skinhead’s dead?’
‘As a doornail.’
Brant shrugged and Porter asked,
‘She get a look at her attacker?
‘Only that he was white, said all white guys look the same to her.’
Porter felt powerless. He wanted to lash out, do something, asked,
‘She know the skinhead is dead?’
‘Yes, she knows.’
‘What’s the deal here? I mean, a black woman, a black policewoman and what... a skinhead guardian angel?’
Brant gave his smile, said,
‘Welcome to the liberal south-east, and you thought we were rednecks.’
Nelson arrived, strode up to them, near shouted,
‘Is she all right?’
Porter looked at Brant who said nothing, then back to Nelson.
‘What are you, a boyfriend?’
Nelson produced his warrant card, said,
‘I’m on the Job.’
Brant sniggered and Nelson gave him the stare, then:
‘I heard someone got killed.’
‘Falls is okay. Our cop killer took a run at her and some skinhead tried to save her, got his ticket punched.’
Nelson took a deep breath, then:
‘Metal... John something or other, runner with the British National Party.’
Porter’s interest was up, asked,
‘You had dealings with him?’
‘No, I knew of him, through another case.’
Porter studied Nelson, then:
‘Were you with her this evening?’
‘Yes, I dropped her off.’
‘You didn’t think to walk her to her door?’
‘I...’
Brant joined, said,
‘What a gent.’
Then turned his back, said to Porter,
‘I’ll sit with her.’
‘You sure?’
“Course.’
Nelson wanted to volunteer but he’d effectively been frozen out. He turned and left without another word.
Barry Weiss was rattled. He’d run till his lungs burst, convinced the cops were going to grab him at any moment. He leant against a wall to get his bearings, knew he had to get off the street. Across the road was a pub and he headed over. A siren sounded and it sounded near. Barry walked up to the bar and a barmaid gave him a curious look, said,
‘You running a marathon?’
He felt the hammer’s weight in his pocket, wanted to grab it, give her a lash across the face, say,
‘Run that.’
He wiped the sweat from his brow, said,
‘Two pints of lager.’
Got those and moved to a table. His heart was palpitating, a tremor in his hands. He sunk the first pint in one long, desperate gulp, thought: That’s the business.
In a few minutes, he felt the panic ease, thought: Jeez, that was close. If the woman had joined in, helped instead of screaming, I would have been in deep shit.
He knew he’d fucked up, should have gone after her once the skinhead was out of the picture. As he began the second pint, he tried to recall if Bundy or Gacy had fucked up. Sure they had, victims escaping from both of them. And... They got caught, how much more could you fuck up? He was still free but he’d have to be careful. When closing time came, he left with the crowd of people who’d drawn out last orders. The pints had restored him and he could feel his adrenalin sing. On the street, there was no sign of cops and Barry decided to restore his confidence. As the crowd began to disperse, hailing cabs, moving to the underground, he had to make a rapid choice. A man in an expensive leather jacket was waving goodbye. Barry fell in behind him, the man’s friends calling: