‘Where are you going with this?’
Brant didn’t answer for a time, then,
‘You told me before about a paedophile you dealt with yourself, when he couldn’t be got through the usual process.’
Porter hadn’t touched his drink, seemed astonished, said,
‘I thought you were asleep when I told you that.’
Brant smiled answered
‘I was nearly asleep, does that count?’
‘I’m not sure we should continue this line of talk, I don’t like where it’s going.’
Brant had finished his drink and reached over, took a belt of Porter’s, said,
‘The Clapham Rapist. He sort of fell on his knife, gutted like the pig he was. Falls... and others... suggested I helped him along. It’s not something that I’d lose any sleep over.’
Porter stood up.
‘I’m going to pretend we didn’t have this conversation.’
Brant looking relaxed, almost happy, asked,
‘You didn’t answer my question. Would you let him continue slaughtering our guys?’
‘You’ve been drinking, Brant. I’m going to clock it up to that, see you tomorrow.’
‘You’ll think about it, Porter, I know I will.’
Later, Brant switched to shorts and the tape had come full circle, started up again. Brant concentrated with a drunk’s ferocity and went,
‘No, that song is still shite.’
The owner, who’d heard Bill Haley now at least thirty times thought: He’s got a point.
The trouble with torture was people got carried away. You never knew when to stop. You completely forgot why you started destroying somebody with pain and you ended up putting paid totally to getting whatever it was you wanted out of them in the first place.
McDonald was in the canteen — Gladys, the tea lady having a good look at him. He ordered poached egg on toast, she put the food before him, said,
‘I’ve given you two eggs.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘You’d make a nice friend for that Porter Nash.’
McDonald stared at her, then:
‘What the hell do you mean by that?’
‘Nothing, just that you’re both fine specimens of the male sex.’
He shoved the plate back at her.
‘Keep the bloody eggs.’
He grabbed a tea and stomped to a table. Gladys watched him go, thought: They’re so touchy, that lot.
McDonald was still fuming when Roberts came in and said,
‘I need you.’
He was going to answer,
‘Fuck off.’
But whined with,
‘Can’t I finish my tea?’
‘Tea! You’re stuck in here all day, aren’t you sick of tea? Come on, we have a murder.’
When they got to the car pool, only a Volvo was available, so Roberts said,
‘You still drive, I take it?’
As they pulled off, Roberts gave directions and McDonald felt a chill. Roberts shouted,
‘For Christ’s sake, watch the road.’
When they pulled up outside the flats, McDonald was sure his eyes would betray him. Roberts said,
‘You’ll know this place.’
‘What?’
‘From your stakeout. The post office is just down the road.’
‘No.’
He wanted to say,
‘I’ll wait in the car.’
With a heavy heart, McDonald followed Roberts into the flats. They didn’t go up the stairs but on through the hall, into the yard. Scene of Crime officers were finishing up and the pathologist was tearing off plastic gloves. McDonald was aware of a choking, rancid smell; he couldn’t bring himself to look. The pathologist, Ryan, went way back with Roberts, asked,
‘What’s wrong with your constable? First time?’
Roberts turned to McDonald, said,
‘Jeez, if you’re going to be sick, don’t do it here, you’ll mess up the crime scene.’
McDonald rushed down the hall, got to the street and puked. A woman passing, said,
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Drunk this time of the morning and you a policeman. I’m reporting you, what’s your number?’
Sweat blinding his eyes, sick on his mouth, he went:
‘Piss off.’
‘Nice language for an officer of the law. I’m definitely reporting you.’
She had a pen and paper out, was jotting down the number. He was too weak to respond; all he could think of was poached eggs and felt fresh bile erupt. Roberts, behind him, said,
‘Jeez, don’t harass the neighbours.’ Turning to the woman, he said, ‘Don’t worry, madam, I’ll sort him out.’
When McDonald straightened up, Roberts asked,
‘What’s with you? You’ve seen bodies before.’
‘It’s... ahm... he seems so young.’
Roberts gave him a long look, then,
‘I’m impressed. How could you tell that when the face’s so wasted?’
McDonald in full panic mode, blurted,
‘The clothes, what young people wear.’
Roberts was still staring, said,
‘Unusual conclusion on such a short glimpse.’
‘I’m trying to think like you, sir. You know, make intuitive leaps.’
‘Some leap. Let’s go take a longer look, see how much more you can leap.’
As they stood over the body, Roberts asked,
‘What’s your thinking?’
McDonald stared up at the window, said,
‘I’d say he came out of that window, broke his neck in the fall.’
‘Good deduction but did he jump or was he pushed? Come here, look at this.’
Roberts crouched and McDonald, fighting revulsion, followed: the face would fuel further nightmares. Roberts had a biro, using it as a pointer, said,
‘The nose is broken, I’d say that was before the fall. We better go up, see what the score is.’
McDonald was relieved to be getting away from the body when Roberts added,
‘Ryan said the fall didn’t kill him instantly.’
‘What?’
‘The poor bastard was lying here, alive, for some time.’
McDonald wanted to grab him, fought for control, went,
‘But... but you said he’d a broken neck.’
‘Yeah, but it didn’t kill him right away. He might even have pulled through if he’d been taken to a hospital.’
McDonald groaned and Roberts patted his shoulder.
‘Don’t take it so personally, you have to stay detached, hear me?’
‘Detached? I’ll try, sir.’
They reached the flat when Roberts said,
‘One thing is sure, though.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘It was one cold-blooded animal who let him die out there. This is one bastard we’re going to nail, am I right?’
‘Right, sir.’
Coke is a sexual, mental, physical blast-off.
Falls was back on duty. As so many officers were tied up with the ‘Blitz’ business, she’d been assigned to Brixton. It had been a lot of years since she’d walked the beat there. For a time, ‘High Visibility’ — the policy of having the police seen on the streets — had been very effective. Then it was abandoned, due to lack of resources. The Super, incensed that she’d attended the funeral, said,
‘She wants aggro? I’ll give her bloody aggro, send her back to jungle-land.’
Most people in the area ignored her. If they wanted help, the police weren’t the ones they turned to. A few had harassed her for being black, oppressing her own kind. The first few days, she’d been edgy, paranoid, angry. Dealt harshly with some illegal parking and traders, penny-ante stuff. Her second day, she busted a dope dealer. Caught him at the bottom end of the market. He’d turned out his pockets and, to her surprise, he’d been carrying coke — a lot of coke. She’d expected crack and maybe some weed. He’d said,