They’d reached the Oval; a canopy had been erected near the station. Falls said,
‘They’ll have her in there.’
Porter said,
‘Wait here.’
And he approached the officers standing outside the station.
Falls heard a low whistle, turned to face Brant, he said,
‘That is some dress.’
Brant looked shocking, as if he’d been on the booze for a week. She said,
‘You look shocking.’
‘I’ve been consoling the Chief Inspector.’
‘How is he?’
Brant stared at the canopy then back to her, said,
‘Fucked.’
I spit in the black ash and rub it between my
fingers and my palms and then I take the ash and
draw a cross upon my face
A cross to keep the fear away
A cross to keep the fear—
A cross to keep—
A cross.
The dead policewoman was Sandra Miller. Not even a south Londoner; originally from Manchester, she’d come to London two years before. Spent six months in telephone sales, drove her demented. She’d applied to Ryanair and the Met Police, figuring one way or another, she was going to fly. The cops replied first, then Ryanair. What she did was compare the uniforms. Decided the police had a slight edge. Plus she relished the expression on people’s faces when they asked,
“And what do you do?”
Being a glorified waitress on a cut rate airline didn’t have the same impact. Found she enjoyed being a WPC.
Assigned to South-East District, she got a bedsit in Camberwell and set about policing them streets. She’d been on the job a year when Barry had randomnly selected her for death. Two shots and her life was done.
The Super had appeared at the scene, as did every cop for miles around. To make sure your face was seen. A horde of uniforms had been despatched to canvass residents of buildings overlooking the crime scene and beyond. Brown was talking to detectives when Brant appeared. Brown tried to disguise his loathing for the Sergeant, said,
‘I’m busy here. You’ll be briefed in the morning along with everybody else.’
To his surprise, Brant didn’t move; stood there with that habitual smirk. The Super snapped:
‘Was there something?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Can’t it bloody wait? This is a murder inquiry.’
Brant stared at the traffic, then turned, said,
‘There’s a witness.’
‘What, why wasn’t I told?’
‘I’ve been trying to tell you for the past half-hour but your...’
He moved his arm in a definite gesture of contempt to indicate McDonald.
‘... driver said you were busy.’
The Super saw the detectives around them suppress a smile. He tried for authority, asked,
‘Why hasn’t this... witness come forth earlier?’
‘Nobody asked him.’
‘What?’
‘Nobody spoke to him.’
With that, Brant nodded to a man standing near the kerb and he approached. If the heavy presence of police intimidated him, he wasn’t showing it. He had the air of a street person, knowing, crafty, ready. The Super inspected the witness. Obviously not impressed, he barked,
‘You say you saw the shooter?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Describe him.’
The guy gave the hint of a smile, took a moment, said,
‘Looks like him.’
He was pointing at McDonald. The Super near lost it, shouted,
‘That’s a damn policeman!’
‘He had the same hair, blond and cut tight, you know, like a nancy boy or somefink.’
‘And what were you at, hanging around on a street corner, you just happened to see the shooting?’
The man was unfazed by the Super’s shouting, said,
‘I sell The Big Issue.’
‘What’s that supposed to tell me?’
The man pointed to the Oval tube entrance, said,
‘That’s my patch; every day, morning till night, I see what goes down.’
Now the Super turned to Brant and ordered,
‘Get him down to the station and take a full statement.’
The man didn’t move, asked,
‘What about my customers? This is one of my busiest times, the pubs will be closing soon. People have had a few, they get that guilt going.’
‘You’ll be compensated.’
‘Yeah, like I believe that.’
Brant took the guy to the pub, asked,
‘What will you have?’
‘Pint and a large brandy.’
He got a pint. They took a table at the rear; Brant said,
‘It’s Tony, right?’
‘Anthony, and you’re Brant?’
‘You know me?’
‘Fuck, who doesn’t?’
‘So, run the description by me.’
‘Aren’t you taking notes?’
And got the look.
The area was preserved at the Oval, scene of crimes had been and most of the cops had drifted away. Porter asked Falls,
‘You want to get a nightcap?’
‘No.’
‘Hang on, I’ll get the car, drop you home.’
‘I’ll walk.’
‘Come on, Falls, you can’t walk home like that.’
She rounded on him, temper flashing.
‘What’s wrong with the way I look?’
‘Jeez, nothing, but you know... a woman on her own.’
Her hand on her hips, she said,
‘I hope some asshole tries, I really do.’
McDonald was feeling better. The day had started badly; he’d arrived at the station to find a dead rat pinned to his locker. Then, in the canteen, he’d moved to join a group at a table and, to a man, they’d gotten up and left. As the day progressed, he realised nobody was talking to him. Finally he’d approached the duty sergeant who glared at him. He asked,
‘Sarge, what’s going on?’
‘Like you don’t know.’
‘Sarge, I swear, cut me a bit of slack. What did I do?’
The sergeant was a Scot, otherwise he’d have blanked McDonald. He looked round, ensured no one was listening, said,
‘You shopped the Doc.’
‘Doc... what Doc?’
‘The one you’re seeing, the shrink. You called CIB, dropped him right in it. They went over there, found him pissed as a parrot, trying to get his leg over his nurse.’
McDonald tried to get his mind in gear, said,
‘I wasn’t seeing any shrink.’
The sergeant raised his eyebrows, said,
‘Whatever, the shrink is fucked. Won’t be a consultant to the force no more. Nice little earner, I hear. The word on you is you’re a fink, a rat.’
McDonald had suddenly realised, said,
‘Brant.’
‘What?’
‘He’s behind it; he made the call, I know it.’
The sergeant leant forward, cautioned,
‘Whoa, laddie, you’re in deep enough. The last thing you need is to have Brant on your case.’
McDonald was offended, countered,
‘I’m not afraid of that bastard.’
The sergeant took a deep breath, said,
‘Everybody else is.’
‘Yeah, well.’
He felt he’d over-emphasised his case, tried to withdraw, said,
‘Anyway, I’d appreciate it if you could spread the word that I’m not a fink.’
The sergeant was shaking his head, went:
‘No three ways to Sunday, you’re fucked.’