‘What the fuck?’
And got a slap in the mouth, a wallop to the balls. Porter said,
‘Get him out of here, tear the room apart.’
Barry managed to croak,
‘Some fucking clothes guys, please?’
He was wrapped in a blanket, bundled out fast. Porter let his shoulders sag as Brant surveyed a mound of cash on the bureau, he said,
‘If we can link this to Dunphy’s payment, we’re on our way.’
Thomas moved out of the room and Porter followed, saying,
‘Thanks.’
‘You think he’s the guy?’
‘I don’t know. Jeez, I hope so.’
‘We’ll take him to Kensington, you can have first crack at him.’
On the street, a crowd had gathered and they alternately jeered and applauded. Brant said,
‘I love showbiz.’
Falls was in her bathroom, afraid to look in the mirror. She couldn’t believe how fast she’d come to total reliance on the drug. So, okay, she’d been hurting: the loss of Rosie, Nelson’s rejection, then the murder of Metal — who’d be able to walk unhurt from that? The coke had been just a pick-me-up, get those first Brixton days done. She’d begun to anticipate the new day, getting out there, getting high.
A shudder ran along her spine. All she thought about was the white powder and the dread of running out. Sure, she’d cut a few corners to get hold of it but let’s not dwell there.
A pounding at the door. She ignored it, hoped they’d go away. Got louder and sounded like the door would come in. Dragged herself to open it. Nelson, looking like he was about to have a seizure. She said,
‘Go away.’
And tried to close the door. He shoved and she fell backwards as he came marching in. Getting shakily to her feet, she said,
‘What the hell are you doing?’
Before he could answer, a voice came from the bedroom:
‘What’s all the noise?’
They both turned to see a skinny white guy, in his twenties, dressed in loose grey Y-fronts. He looked like a roadie after a rough gig. Nelson moved, pushed past him and gathered up clothes from the bedroom floor, the guy going,
‘I’m getting some negative vibes.’
And was grabbed by Nelson, hustled to the door, flung into the street, his clothes sailing behind. He yelped,
‘I need a caffeine fix, man.’
The door was slammed. Nelson turned to face Falls, said,
‘The state of you, like some crack junkie and with that...’
He pointed to the street, adding,
‘Trailer trash. What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’
She had to get something, said,
‘I need the bathroom.’
Got in there and tried to get a grip, thinking: Okay, take it slow, do two lines then get out there, deal with that bully, yeah, that’s the best thing.
Had the lines laid on the cistern, was about to snort when the door came crashing in, Nelson towering above her, saying,
‘Aw Jesus, on your knees, scrambling to get that shit.’
He moved, swiped the powder away, grabbed her arm and hauled her back to the living room, threw her into an armchair. She tried,
‘You can’t do this, who do you think you are?’
He moved right in her face, she could smell toothpaste and the remnants of... rum? He spoke through clenched teeth:
‘Who am I? I’m the cop who can bust your ass for possession, for intent to distribute, for extortion... you want me to continue? We’re talking eight years jail time, and that’s minimum. Now do you know who I am?’
She tried to gather her thoughts. How did he know all this? Couldn’t meet his eyes. Nelson backed off, sank into the chair opposite. She searched his face for some softening but he looked like he hated her. She asked,
‘What had you in mind?’
‘You have a choice. You can go to jail or rehab.’
‘Rehab?’
‘Yes, right now, they’re expecting you.’
He looked at his watch, continued,
‘In fact, you’re already late and they get very stroppy about that so you’re off to a bad start. I hadn’t expected you to be entertaining guests.’
She’d have killed for a line, her body was starting to tremble. She asked,
‘This rehab, how long would I be there?’
‘As long as it takes.’
‘I can’t, Nelson. I’m the type they’d mangle, I’m not cut out for that.’
‘Fine.’
He stood up, headed for the door. She called:
‘Wait, where are you going?’
‘To shop you. The warrant will probably be handed down quickly, you being a cop and all. Let me guess — they’ll come for you this evening, so you have... ten hours to coke out or... you could run.’
Tears formed but she steeled herself, said,
‘I’ll go.’
‘Hey, you’re not doing me any favours, I don’t give a toss what you decide. You’re a rogue cop, that’s the bottom of the fucking barrel.’
‘What do you want, blood? I’ll go.’
‘It’s now, Falls. You pack some things, we’re moving in five minutes.’
They were. He’d stood over her as she got a bag, no hope of a line. In the car, she asked,
‘Where is it?’
‘Croydon, a place called Fern House. I’m not going to lie to you, it’s a tough project, you’ll be put through your paces.’
‘And you know the place... how?’
‘The woman who runs it, I did her a favour once.’
Nelson was making good time, cutting through traffic, hitting all the green lights, gliding smoothly. Falls had hoped for a long, slow journey, finally pleaded:
‘Couldn’t we stop for a drink? I’m coming apart here.’
He took a quick look, said,
‘No.’
Ten minutes later, they pulled into a quiet street, in front of a large imposing house. Falls stared then asked,
‘That’s it?’
‘Yeah.’
He was about to get out when she touched his arm, said,
‘I need a promise.’
‘Depends.’
‘Promise me you won’t ever tell me why they call it Fucking Fern.’
A
dead
ringer
for love
Porter, Brant, Roberts and the Super were sitting round a conference table. Porter said,
‘We’ve got him in the interview room.’
And he nodded at Brant, who said,
‘I got hold of the Big Issue guy who said he saw the WPC being capped at the Oval. His identification would have given us all we needed but he says he can’t remember: no way could he make a positive ID. We can’t prove that the money from Dunphy is what we found in Weiss’s hotel room. In conjunction with harder proof, we might have been able to make it look bad but not on its own.’
The Super was looking frustrated, said,
‘What else do we have?’
Porter shifted through his files, said,
‘A sharp medical examiner noticed the bullets that killed the WPC were similar to those he took from a traffic warden a few weeks earlier.’
The Super was lost, went,
‘A bloody traffic warden, what the hell does that mean?’
Porter paused, then,
‘It means he was practising.’
‘What?’
‘Working his way up to a policeman... or woman.’
The Super felt it was time to establish his leadership, show them how real results were achieved, said,
‘We’re going to pull the old con on Mr Weiss.’
Porter didn’t like the sound of this. The Super was animated:
‘The old tricks are the best ones. None of your fancy west London stuff needed here; we put a ringer in the cell with Weiss.’