They stood to the side of what appeared to be the principal mourners. A shabby couple, looking crushed, had to be the parents. Two BNP members helped the gravediggers lower the coffin. Then Falls stepped forward, laid the rose on top and moved quickly back. When the coffin was released, the priest said another few words and then the crowd began to disperse. Falls approached the parents, began,
‘Your son was...’
The father put out his hand, to shield his wife from her, finished Falls’ sentence with,
‘No friend of the likes of you.’
And they turned, walked quickly away. Nelson grabbed Falls’ arm, led her back to the car. He heard,
‘Hey!’
And turned to see two skinheads approaching. He moved in front of Falls, braced himself. They had armbands with BNP on them. Falls noted with sadness how young and good-looking they were, though hate was already marring the freshness of their pallor. She could feel the hatred like a cold wave rolling towards her. They stopped a foot from Nelson, one of them put out his hand, threw the crumpled rose on the ground, said,
‘We don’t take shit from niggers.’
Nelson started to spring but she held him back.
The second one said,
‘That black cunt got our comrade killed.’
And he spat, the spittle landing on the sleeve of her coat. Then they gave the Hitler salute and took off. Nelson let out his breath slowly, bent to retrieve the flower. She snapped,
‘Leave it, it’s contaminated.’
In the car, as they pulled away, she said,
‘Stop at The Cricketers.’
‘Okay.’
Took him a while to park and he could sense her impatience. As they got out of the cat, he said,
‘You want to get some breakfast first?’
But she was already heading for the pub. Caught her up as she reached the counter. She ordered:
‘Two large whiskies.’
Nelson looked at the guy then at Falls, said,
‘I think I’ll have coffee.’
‘Then order it, these are for me.’
When the drinks came, she poured both into one glass, moved to a table. The barman, a sympathetic expression on his face, asked,
‘A coffee?’
‘Yeah.’
Nelson was tempted to simply turn on his heel and take off. Sighing, he headed for her table and she said,
‘Don’t sit.’
‘What?’
‘You’ve done your chaperone jaunt, now you can fuck off.’
‘Falls, we need to talk.’
‘Oh yeah, about what? Italian restaurants, or maybe how much of a man you are? How you treat a woman with respect and piss off the first night?’
He put the coffee down, said,
‘If that’s what you want. I’ll call you, maybe?’
‘I’ve been called enough for one day.’
As Nelson headed out, the barman raised his eyes to heaven.
McDonald had to drag himself to work. He felt shattered. The hardboiled stance had deserted him as soon as the geek went out the window. How Brant maintained that role day in, day out, was a mystery. His own plan to track Brant, bring him down, was undergoing a re-appraisal. If Brant had done similar acts and was still a hard-ass, then he was a fucking ice man. McDonald shuddered when he thought of his pursuit of him. Jesus, what madness. Brant would have thrown him out the window and had takeaway chips after.
All night, McDonald had twisted in his bed. Each snatch of sleep brought the geek, covered in blood, his neck grotesquely altered. McDonald wondered if he’d ever sleep again. Plus, when the body was discovered, there’d be an investigation. Christ, what if he was caught? His fingerprints had to be all over the flat... and on the geek’s glasses. He tried to shut down that line of speculation.
By the time he got to the station, he was worn out. The desk sergeant barked,
‘What have you been at?’
Guilt danced all over him: did they know already? He stammered,
‘W-h-h-hat?’
‘Look at you, you have black circles under your eyes. What, were you clubbing?’
‘No... I...’
‘You’ll need to get a grip, constable. Partying till the small hours is not a smart move if you’ve any ambition.’
‘Yes, sarge.’
‘You’re for it this morning.’
‘Oh?’
‘Chief Inspector Roberts has been screaming for you. You’re lucky to be with him, he’s covered in glory these days.’
‘Lucky? Yes, I’m lucky.’
‘But not for much longer if you don’t get your head out of your arse. Don’t stand there like a prick, get going.’
He did.
Knocking on the door of Roberts office, he considered going,
‘Argh...’
And hightailing it out of the station. Heard,
‘Come in.’
Roberts was the picture of activity — fresh, crisp and energised. He asked,
‘So, what happened?’
‘Happened, sir?’
‘At the bloody post office. You staked it out, didn’t you?’
‘Oh yes, sir, they were very helpful, provided a counter where I could observe without being seen.’
‘And...?’
‘And... ahm... nothing.’
Roberts shot to his feet.
‘Nothing? Then how come another pensioner was attacked last night? And guess what, in a building that’s not a bloody spit from the post office.’
By the time you say you’re his, shivering and
sighing
And he vows his passion is
Infinite, undying —
Lady, make a note of this
One of you is lying.
Porter alighted from the cab outside Barkers deparment store. He had offered to pick up Brant who’d said,
‘No, I’ll be outside the church, having a smoke.’
He was.
But not alone. By his side was a woman. She was in her late thirties with straggly blonde hair, a very short mini and a face that had been walloped often. A black bomber jacket barely contained her huge breasts. Brant gave a wry smile. He was wearing a bespoke suit that said ‘cash or blackmail’, probably both. A white rose in his lapel gave a lopsided slant to the jacket. He said,
‘This is Kim.’
She held out her hand, said,
‘Charmed, I’m sure.’
Porter shook her hand, noting the rough feel. He said,
‘We’d better go in.’
The ceremony was nearly over, the church crammed. Brant whispered,
‘Jeez, they’re in some kind of hurry, yeah?’
The groom was saying,
‘Yes, I do.’
From Porter’s position, the groom looked old, very old. In contrast to the bride, dressed in white, who appeared scarcely out of her twenties. Brant leered at Porter, let his tongue loll from the side of his mouth. After the service, the newlyweds posed for photos outside the church. Later, they’d discover — to their horror — that Kim and Brant had crept into the pictures. Porter moved forward, congratulated his father then motioned to Brant and said,
‘Dad, this is Sergeant Brant.’
Nash senior was staring at Kim and asked,
‘Is this Mrs Brant?’
Brant, eying the bride, seemed not to have heard but then turned, said,
‘No, she’s a hooker.’
Nash swallowed, composed himself, said to Porter,
‘I see, well, we must away. See you at the reception, with your... ahm... colleague.’
The Kensington Hotel was a short walk from the church. Kim moved to Porter’s side with Brant walking point, she asked,
‘The bloke who got married, is he really, like, your old man?’