‘Yes, he is.’
He could smell her perfume and it was making him dizzy. Porter realised he couldn’t think straight. For one awful moment, he felt she was going to link his arm. Now she asked,
‘And your mum, doesn’t she, like... mind?’
He laughed out loud, more from hysteria than humour. Brant said,
‘See, Porter — you’re having yourself a time.’
Porter glared, said,
‘I’ll talk to you later.’
Then back to Kim, answered,
‘My mother is dead.’
‘Oh, that’s handy.’
Then she giggled, put her hand to her mouth, said,
‘Oh my God, I didn’t mean...’
‘It’s okay. How did you...’ — he was going to say hook up with — ‘...meet Sergeant Brant?’
More giggles, then:
‘He found my name in a phone booth.’
Whatever else, Porter admired her total lack of shame. They’d got to the hotel and she said,
‘I’d love a Babycham, but not many places sell them these days. Do you remember them?’
‘Yes, I do.’
She settled for a vodka and white. Brant had moved into the crowd and Porter wondered if he’d be stuck with Kim for the day. She gave him an intense look, said,
‘Don’t worry, I won’t be hanging out of you.’
‘I didn’t think...’
‘Yes, you did. Men are so obvious. If they get crossed, their faces get that tantrum expression.’
Her eyes scanned the crowd and she said,
‘Believe me, I’m never alone long in a hotel.’
The dinner was the usual rip-off: limp chicken and salad, followed by dead dessert. No one was complaining, thanks mainly to the gallons of wine that were at hand. Then the speeches began, droning on for over an hour. Finally, Nash senior thanked his guests, near gushed about his beautiful bride and made no mention of his son. Porter checked his watch. Ten minutes tops, then he was leaving.
Brant was chatting to the barman when Porter’s father approached, said,
‘Let me get you a drink, Sergeant.’
‘Sure, a scotch will do it.’
They got that and Brant said,
‘Chin chin, congratulations and all that.’
Nash was staring, said,
‘You seem an unlikely person to be a friend of... my son?’
‘How would you know?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I could be wrong but I’d say you know fuck all about your son.’
Nash tensed, his body language moving into attack mode. Brant smiled and Nash willed himself to ease down, said,
‘You surprise me, Sergeant, I wouldn’t have taken you for a fag hag.’
Brant signalled to the barman for refills, asked,
‘You’ll be on that Viagra, yeah?’
Nash forced himself to smile though rage suffused him, said,
‘That’s a cheap shot, Sergeant.’
Brant waved a hand towards the crowd, said,
‘Despite the flash hotel, you’re a cheap kind of guy.’
Nash knew he should just walk away. He’d never be able to score points with this animal but a stubbornness kept him there and he tried another tack, said,
‘I’ve been in business for a lot of years, I’m a pretty good judge of people. You ever get tired of being a flatfoot, you’d do well to consider the private sector.’
Brant finished his drink, took a step away from the bar, asked,
‘Are you offering me a job?’
‘A man like you, Sergeant, you’d do well.’
Brant seemed to be considering it and Nash decided to sweeten the pot, said,
‘I’d help you find accommodation on this side of the river. You’d like it over here.’
‘Tell you what, you ask anyone, they’ll tell you. I’m an arseshole, but work for you? Even I’m not that big an asshole.’
‘At my signal, unleash hell.’
Russell Crowe
Radnor had arranged to meet Dunphy at Waterloo, instructed,
‘Wait in the station bar, have a copy of The Tabloid with you.’
‘How do I know you’ll show?’
‘You bring the money, I’ll show.’
Dunphy had discussed it with the editor who’d said,
‘Do whatever it takes to clinch this, don’t fuck it up.’
He was determined not to. The prospect of catching ‘The Blitz’ made his heart pound. If he played this right, he could be hearing from the quality papers, not to mention the perks. Sitting at the bar in Waterloo, he spread The Tabloid on the table, tapped the envelope in his pocket, a thick wad of notes there.
A man approached, wearing an old Crombie and a cravat. He was smiling, Dunphy asked,
‘You’re...?’
‘The man you were expecting.’
He sat and Dunphy asked,
‘What do I call you?’
‘Your ticket to ride. Did you bring the money?’
Dunphy tapped his pocket, asked,
‘What have you got for me?’
‘Let’s go, it’s a visual.’
Radnor led the way to the lockers. Dunphy’s excitement was building. Radnor glanced around, then opened number 68, said,
‘Feast your eyes.’
Dunphy did. Then,
‘Are these items what I think they are?’
‘Trophies I believe is the term. Don’t touch anything.’
Dunphy was already composing the headline:
He asked,
‘And you know who this locker belongs to?’
‘I sure do, saw him open it myself.’
Here was the tricky part. Dunphy tried to stay cool, asked,
‘And when do I get the name?’
‘Ah, some further negotiation is required.’
A hundred yards away, Barry Weiss watched them in horror, his mind racing:
What the fuck...? It’s the reporter, the treacherous bastard, and the tall bloke, looking like some army fuck... Wait a minute, I know him... think, think, come on... yes, the Irish pub, talking to Brant. It was him; Jesus, he must have followed me.
He watched as the two men headed for the bar, to celebrate no doubt. At that moment he knew what he had to do. Kill them both. Negotiations were obviously going on, how much they’d buy and sell him for. A torrent of rage shook his body. If he’d had the Glock with him, he’d have walked right over there and settled their negotiations on the spot.
But which one to do first? Who posed the biggest threat? The snitch, yeah. He was the one with the information. Christ, it was going to be a busy day. As he watched, the snitch stood and walked to the toilet. Barry had a reckless idea and acted on it. Strode into the bar, passing right by the journalist, he could have reached out his hand, said,
‘Guess who?’
Into the toilet, where the snitch was preening himself in the mirror. Barry hit him fast, hard enough to stun him, and dragged him into a stall. The snitch’s eyes opened wide in recognition and he gasped,
‘I haven’t told him your name.’
‘Why?’
‘He hasn’t paid for it yet.’
Barry could understand that, said,
‘I’m not going to hurt you, I only do police, remember?’
A mad hope in Radnor’s eyes and Barry asked,
‘How’d you get on to me?’
The snitch seemed proud, said,
‘I got your address from the gym in Streatham, where you’d hurt a guy. Then I just followed you.’
Barry nodded, said,
‘Simple and smart.’
Then he grabbed Radnor’s head, said,
‘You’re going to have to help me on this. It’s a tight squeeze.’
Jammed his head into the bowl. It was a tight squeeze. Barry thought: This is a hell of a way to do it.