‘Don’t you smoke in my house.’
He slipped the gear back into his pocket. Falls’ face was creased in concentration. Then:
‘Okay, I’ll look into it—’
‘Thanks, I...’
‘Shut up, I haven’t finished. If the man is dead, you’re on your own; in fact, I’ll nick you myself. Go home and wait till you hear from me.’
He stood up and she added,
‘It’s choice time, John. If you haven’t killed this time, you’ll either quit them Nazis or quit coming here. Do you follow?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
As he went out, he asked,
‘Are we like... you know... still mates?’
‘I don’t know.’
Shut the door.
I have two ways of acting...
with
or without
the horse.
Brant had a new snitch, the life and blood of any police force. In his time, Brant had met some beauts. One way or another, they’d all come to a nasty end. One memorable Cypriot guy had been literally kebabbed to death. It had put Brant right off lamb souvlakis. His latest was old for the trade. Just over sixty, he’d been in nick for thirty of those years. His name was Radnor Bowen. No one knew if this was his actual name but as his speciality had been break-ins on Radnor Walk, it could have gone either way. Thus the severity of his sentencing; judges don’t like scum from ‘south of the river’ to get notions.
He was tall and thin, with open, warm eyes. You’d take him for a kindly uncle and he’d take you for everything you’d got. He’d been trying a new career until Brant had decided to run him.
Radnor was aware of Brant’s rep, plus the knowledge that his predecessors had come to a bad end; he was determined to outsmart the Sergeant. They met in an Irish pub off the Balham High Road. This time Radnor had got there first, was nursing a half of bitter. It tasted like warm piss, a potion he’d been forced to drink on his first stretch. He looked round the huge saloon, posters of the Wolfe Tones abounded. A framed picture of ‘The men behind the wire’. Coming attractions were advertised on the walls and these included tribute acts to:
Daniel O’Donnell
Brendan Shine
Dale Haze and The Champions.
He shuddered — the originals were horror enough. An ashtray on the table contained the words:
‘Players Please’
He wondered if it was an omen. You don’t spend half your life in stir without acquiring superstitions. He was wearing a Crombie overcoat, silk cravat, blazer, grey slacks and highly polished black shoes. The barman had him clocked as ex-army. The pose of ramrod-stiff back was a further legacy of prison.
He knew what Brant would want. The cop killer, the whole south-east was buzzing with rumours. Radnor intended to make this his jackpot, a payoff that would take him to a small cottage in Cornwall and safety. The door opened and Brant strode in, looking as feral as ever.
Brant marched over to the bar, got a scotch and had some words with the barman. No money changed hands. Then he came over to the table. Brant was wearing a semi-respectable suit and a Police Federation tie. He asked,
‘Been here long?’
‘Just arrived.’
Brant got his cigs out, fired up, said,
‘You’ll know what I want.’
‘I do.’
‘So, spill.’
Radnor focused, said,
‘I’m on to something.’
‘What?’
‘I need paying.’
Brant smiled, dropped his cig in the bitter, said,
‘Oh, sorry.’
Radnor gave a sad smile, didn’t answer. Brant leant over, asked,
‘What had you in mind?’
‘Serious money.’
‘Whoa... like retirement benefit?’
He let his hand rest on Radnor’s knee, said,
‘Bony fucker, aren’t you?’
Is there an answer to this, an answer that bears some relation to sanity? If there is, Radnor hadn’t got it. Brant began stroking the knee, said,
‘But you don’t have the brains of a chicken... do you?’
Then Brant twisted his fingers and jolts of pain shot through Radnor’s thigh, along the testicles to lodge in his gut. Tears ran from his eyes as Brant continued,
‘I doubt if you’ve any Irish blood in you, you’re an out-and-out chap, the English gent in your poncy cravat and fucked coat. Me now, I’ve a wild streak of the Celt, makes me unpredictable. Them Irish, did you know they invented kneecapping? Answer me.’
‘Ahm, no, yes... I guess one would surmise...’
‘Ah, shut up with your fake Hampstead accent. As I was saying, kneecapping, it’s a nasty business. They fix you up as best they can, but you always have a limp. How does that sound, “Radnor the gimp”. How does that go down in your retirement package?’
Brant looked at the barman, said,
‘Yo, innkeeper, a brandy and port and a large scotch before closing time.’
Then he grinned at Radnor, all teeth, no warmth, said,
‘Christ, decent help is hard to find, know what I mean? Here’s what we’ll do: have a nice stiff drink, fortify our resolve, maybe a pack of ready salted or are you a cheese and onion man?’
Radnor managed to croak,
‘Cheese and onion.’
‘Good man, that’s the ticket. Barkeep, a selection of your freshest crisps, no expense spared.’
A man entered, took a stool at the bar. Radnor checked him out of professional habit. Brant did the same. The barman arrived with a tray of crisps and the drinks, put it down in the centre of the table. Brant said,
‘Well, go on Rad, pay the man.’
Radnor had to dig deep, produced a note and Brant said,
‘Keep the change.’
Sly smile from the barman. When he got back behind the counter, he said to the man on the stooclass="underline"
‘Get you?’
‘A pint of lager and something for yourself.’
Bigger smile from the barman, the day was improving by the minute. Brant raised his glass, said,
‘Okay, tell me.’
Radnor took a deep breath, felt he was moving through a minefield, said,
‘There’s a guy who’s been shouting his mouth off; he was in that poncy gym at Streatham, beat a homosexual half to death there. When the management had a word and mentioned the police, he said: “I’ll be giving them something to worry about very soon”.’
Brant stopped mid chew, crisps lodged in his teeth, said,
‘That’s it?’
‘The guy is a nutter.’
‘Fuck, if we pulled in every wanker who said that, we’d be up to our arse in suspects. What’s his name?’
‘I don’t know. I’m meeting up with a guy who’ll give me that.’
Brant stood up, said,
‘Don’t bother, I’ll go the gym, ask the manager.’
Radnor, his dream evaporating, pleaded,
‘Don’t I get something?’
‘You’ve got cheese and onion... what more do you want, you greedy bugger?’
And he was gone.
At the bar, the man had been watching them. The barman said,
‘That’s a cop and his snitch.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, that piece of garbage that left, he’s Brant, a total pig; and the git in the cravat, he’s flogging him information.’
The man looked impressed, said,
‘You seem pretty sure.’
‘I’m the boss, it’s my job to know.’
He tapped his nose with his index finger.
Barry Weiss studied the man who’d remained and contemplated offing him but decided against it. He’d a full programme. Instead, he said to the barman,