Brant looked round. ‘Jaysus, it’s busy.’
Nancy produced her ID. ‘I’m Sergeant D’Agostini with the New York City Police Department. I’ll be your guide and facilitator while you’re here.’
‘Facil-i-what?’
She took a deep breath and before she could speak, he slapped her thigh, said, ‘Lighten up, woman. Where’s the bar?’ And he produced a cigarette.
She put out her hands. ‘This is a NO SMOKING zone.’
He eyeballed her and cranked a worn Zippo. ‘Are we cops or what?’
‘Well yes, but …
‘So fuck ’em. Let’s get a brewski.’
The bar at JFK is a good intro to New York. The staff are
rude
busy
hostile.
After Brant and Nancy had waited for five minutes, she said, ‘Let’s head into Manhattan, we’ll get you a cold one at your hotel.’
Brant gave his satanic smile, roared, ‘Hey Elvis, before Labour Day, all right?’
Nancy had to suppress a smile — he sounded so Noo Yawk. The barman asked, ‘What’ll it be?’
‘Coupla beers.’
‘Domestic or imported?’
Brant leant on the counter, still smiling, right in the guy’s face. ‘Forgot the floss eh? … Bring us two strong beers and bring ’em now.’
Nancy asked, ‘This isn’t your first time in America?’
He reached in his pocket, showed her a small book:
Asshole’s Guide To New York — How To Be Ruder Than The Natives.
(By P Catherine Kennedy)
Brant asked, ‘You want a glass?’ And he chugged his from the bottle.
She said, ‘Like I have a choice.’
He ruffled her carefully brushed hair. ‘I think you’re my kinda chick.’
Children’s program
Deep down in an area beyond definition, Falls struggled to wake. She knew consciousness was reachable but she couldn’t make the first step. The plans for the baby, how they’d curl up together on the couch and watch TV … If she could recall the names of the Teletubbies, she felt she’d crash to the surface. Tinky-Winky. OK. Got one. That’s the blue colour, and … Dipsy. Oh yeah. On a roll now. The yellow one — what was the little shit’s name? … Da-da? … No, but close. … La-La! Yes! Just the fourth to go. The small red fella … with the simplest name of all. She was that near and then it began to slip. With stark terror she forgot what she was trying to remember, saw a black meteorite come hurtling and tried to shout … Dougal … Magic Roun …
And her mind shut down.
A radio was playing softly in the hospital ward. Rosie prayed that Falls couldn’t hear the particular song now playing — Toni Braxton with Kenny G — ‘An Angel broke My Heart’.
Jesus.
She sat by her friend’s side holding her hand. The nurse came, did nurse-like things like fluffing the pillow, checking her watch, sighing.
Rosie asked, ‘Will she wake up?’
‘You’d have to speak to her doctor.’
‘What can I do?’
‘Talk to her.’
‘Can she hear me? … Or have I to speak to her doctor?’
The nurse gave her trained smile, alight with:
understanding
tolerance
and the tiniest hint of contempt.
‘Just chat like you would ordinarily.’
After the nurse left, Rosie muttered, ‘Cow,’ then cleared her throat self-consciously, as if she were recording. Hesitantly she began, ‘So hon … Good grief, I nearly asked how you were.’
She glanced round to check if her faux pas had been clocked, then, ‘Where was I? … I never got to tell you about my trip to Goa. Oh yeah, Jack was always on about the sanitation and he couldn’t see any evidence of pipes. Me? … All I need to know is it works, like pur-leeze, spare me the mechanics. But then someone said, “Notice all the pigs?” They were everywhere and very well fed.’ (Rosie gave a small shriek) — You’ve guessed it! Isn’t it too awful? I’ll never eat a bacon butty again.’
Then Rosie felt a pang of hunger. She was on yet another diet, the ‘T’ model.
T for torture.
She could murder an obscenely over-buttered thick wedge of toast, coat the lot in marmalade and eat it without dignity so the juice ran down her chin … and she’d wash the lot down with sugared tea.
Ah!
Yet again she felt tears for Falls, for herself, for carbohydrated freedom. Then she straightened her back, said, ‘Hon, I have a confession to make. I’d never have told you, but I fancied the pants off yer fella. Not that I’d ever have … you know, but he sure had something. That cute bum … but it was those staring eyes. I thought he could see into my soul. Isn’t that daft? He made me feel so exposed I had to look away.’
Falls stirred and Rosie jumped. But it was only a reflex and she settled back into the void. Rosie continued to hold her hand.
Roberts was beginning to wear out a space in front of the Super’s desk. As usual, he was getting a bollocking. The Super tore into him about the usual fuck ups, then asked, ‘What’s the story on the ducks?’
For an insane moment, Roberts thought he said, ‘What’s the story on the ducks,’ and wondered if the radiation was softening his brain. He answered, ‘Excuse me?’
‘The ducks in Hyde Park, some nutter beheaded five of them.’
Roberts was sore tempted to try, ‘Not our side of the pond,’ but went with, ‘How is it our concern, sir?’
‘How? I’ll tell you flamin’ how … the heads were put through the letter box of the Chief Constable at his place in Old Town Clapham. What do you say to that?’
Again the demons urged — ‘Duck!’ — but without waiting for a reply, the Super was thundering further. ‘As for the WPC … Forbes …
‘Falls, sir.’
‘Eh?’
‘Her name, sir, it’s Falls.’
‘Don’t get impertinent laddie. Do we have any hope of apprehending them or have they joined the migration to America?’
Roberts thought that was quite witty and probably true but he said, ‘We’re following a definite line of inquiry.’
The Super was out of his chair, shouting, ‘In other words, we haven’t the foggiest.’
But Roberts did have a definite lead. Following the oldest police hunch of all, he got back to the beginning. Roberts had checked with Croydon CID. Sure enough the suspect had bolted for home. That anyone would flee to Croydon was a measure of how desperate he was. The buzz had hit the station that his whereabouts were known. Eager constables flocked to Roberts hoping to be part of the team. He was having none of it. Outside the station, a Volvo was waiting, engine turning, door open. Roberts peered in. ‘You’re keen, I’ll give you that.’
The driver, a blond haired man in his twenties smiled, asked, ‘Croydon?’
Roberts got in. ‘What’s yer name sonny?’
‘McDonald, Guv.’
‘Oh wonderful, a bloody Scot. Spare me the Billy Connolly shite, OK?’
McDonald put the car in gear, asked blankly, ‘Billy who?’
‘Good lad, you’ll go far.’
Elgin Lane is that rarity in this part of London. It’s got trees and grass verges and a large Greek presence. No connection to them marbles.
McDonald parked and Roberts said, ‘Number nine.’
They got out and walked casually to the house. A line of bells, reading: Zacharopolous/ Ohrtanopolous Yoganopolous.
Like that.
Except for one blank bell, indicating the ground floor. Roberts said, ‘Use all yer police training and guess which one is our man.’
The door was ajar and in they went, scrutinised the ground floor flat. Roberts said, ‘Tut tut, no dead bolt, just yer basic Yale … what do you weigh, son?’
‘Weigh?’
‘It’s not a difficult question.’
‘Fourteen stone.’
‘Well son, the door won’t come to us.’
‘Oh.’
‘Right.’
McDonald braced himself against the far wall and before he launched, a young woman came down the stairs, gave Roberts a dazzling smile and said, ‘Kalimera.’
Roberts answered, ‘Whatever,’ and after she left, added, ‘The Greeks have a word for it all right … OK son, are you going to hang about all day?’