Brant leant over Josie, saw the holes pumped by the dum dums and shouted, ‘Oh God!’
Collie was at the taxi rank and his collar allowed him to jump the queue. That, plus cheek.
‘Central London,’ he said.
His elation and adrenalin was clouded by what he’d seen. A handcuff? How could that be?
Then he realised the driver was talking … incessantly. Collie touched the gun and smiled.
Acts ending — if not concluding
When Bill heard of the airport shooting he shouted, ‘What the bloody blue fuck is the matter with everyone? Can’t anybody do a blasted thing right?’
His minder didn’t know, said, ‘I dunno.’
‘Course you don’t bloody know, yah thick fuck.’
What Bill knew was the shit was about to hit the fan — and hard.
He headed home and his daughter Chelsea was waiting. She said, ‘I love you, Dad.’
Bill had recently caught a BBC documentary on Down’s syndrome. The children had been titled ‘the gentle prophets’. He wasn’t entirely sure what it meant but he liked it.
Picking up Chelsea, he asked, ‘Want to go on a trip with yer Dad?’
‘Oh yes!’
‘Good girl.’
‘Where, Dad?’
‘Somewhere far and till things cool off.’
‘Can we go tomorrow Dad?’
‘Darlin’, we’re going today.’
Roberts was once again before the Super. A very agitated Super, who asked, ‘What the bloody hell is going on?’
‘Sir?’
‘Don’t “sir” me, Roberts … the fiasco at the airport … Who on earth would shoot the woman?’
‘They say it was a priest.’
The Super displayed a rare moment of wit, said, ‘Lapsed Catholic, was she?’
Roberts gave the polite smile, about one inch wide.
The Super snapped, ‘It’s hardly a joking matter! Could it have been Brant he was after?’
‘It seems to have been a very definite hit, sir.’
‘Where’s Brant now?’
‘Still at Heathrow — Special Branch are de-briefing him.’
The Super stood up, began pacing. Not a good sign. He was muttering, ‘God only knows what the Yanks will make of this.’
A knock at the door and a woman looked in. ‘Ready for your tea, and biccy, sir?’
He exploded, ‘Tea? I don’t want bloody tea, I want results!’
She fled.
The Super leant on the desk. ‘You’ll have to have a word with WPC Fell.’
‘Falls, sir.’
‘What, like the present continuous of the verb ‘to fall’, not the past tense? You’re giving me an English lesson?’
‘No, sir … I …
‘The damn woman has resigned. I mean, her being black … you know … Minority Policing and all that horse-shit … Get her back.’ Before Roberts could reply, the Super was off again, ‘Well don’t hang about, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Roberts had reached the door when the Super said, ‘Send in me tea.’
Brief debriefing
‘We’d like you to go through it one more time, Sergeant.’
Brant lit up a Weight, took a deep drag, exhaled. ‘You’re trying to learn it by heart, that it?’
The two men conducting the interview wore suits. One had a black worsted, the other a tweed Oxford. Black said, patiently, ‘There may be some detail you’ve forgotten.’
‘It’s on tape, yer mate in the Oxfam job had a recorder.’
Oxford said, ‘We’re anxious to let you get home.’
Brant sat back, said, ‘We arrived at Heathrow, I re-cuff us — ’
‘Re-cuff?’
‘Is there an echo?’
‘Let me understand this, Sergeant. The woman was uncuffed during the flight?’
‘You catch on quick, boyo.’
The men exchanged a glance, then: ‘Please continue.’
‘We got off the plane and I covered the cuffs with me jacket …
Another exchanged look.
‘Then we came out and a priest shot her.’
‘What makes you think he was a priest?’
‘Was he was a good shot? What d’ya think, he looked like Bing Crosby?’
Now Oxford allowed his skepticism to show, said, ‘He was hardly a priest.’
‘Are you catholic?’
‘No, but I hardly see …
‘If you were a catholic, you’d not be surprised what priests are capable of.’
Black decided to take control — cut the shit, cut to the chase. ‘You won’t be shedding any tears, will you Sergeant?’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Well, I mean … like someone did you a favour, eh? She tried to murder you once, killed one of your colleagues … how much can you be hurting?’
Brant was up. ‘Enough of this charade, I’m off.’
Oxford moved to block the door and Brant smiled. ‘’Scuse me.’
Oxford stepped aside. Brant opened the door, paused, said: ‘I may need to talk to you two again. Don’t leave town.’
J is for Judgement (Sue Grafton)
Roberts met with Brant in The Cricketers. He’d parked his car near The Oval, said to The Big Issue vendor, ‘Keep an eye, eh?’ and indicated the motor.
The vendor said, ‘Play fair, Guv, they’d steal yer eye.’
Brant was at the back of the pub, a tepid coffee before him. Roberts put out his hand. ‘Good to see you, Tom,’ and meant it. Then, ‘Don’t you want a real drink?’
‘With all me soul but I was afraid to start.’
‘Start now.’
‘I will.’
They did. Whiskey chasers.
No conversation, let the scotch fill the spaces. Then Brant rummaged in his jacket and produced a squashed hat, said, ‘Got yah a present.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s a bit battered. I fell on it.’
Roberts tentatively touched it, then took it in both hands. ‘I dunno what to say.’
‘Give it some time, it will bounce back.’
‘Like us, eh?’
Brant gave him a look as if he were only now really seeing him, asked, ‘You were sick?’
At last thought Roberts, I can finally share. ‘Naw, nothing worth mentioning.’ Then he added, ‘Falls is out.’
‘Out where?’
‘The force, she resigned.’
Brant was animated, life returning. ‘She can’t do that!’
‘Word is you lent her the dosh to bury her father.’
‘Me?’
‘Did yah?’
‘C’mon Guv, am I a soft touch?’
‘What d’ya say we finish up, go round to see her?’
‘Like now?’
‘You have other plans?’
‘Naw.’
They finished their drinks, got ready to go. Brant asked, ‘Out of vague interest, how much am I supposed to have given her?’
‘Two large.’
Brant didn’t answer, just gave a low whistle. The figure was twice that, but then …
Who was counting?
In Balham, as they approached Falls’ home, Roberts asked, ‘How d’ya want to play this?’
‘Let’s make it up as we go along.’
‘Good plan.’
They banged on the door and no reply. Roberts said, ‘Could be she’s out.’
‘Naw, she’s home, there’s a light.’ Brant took out his keys, said, ‘Pretend you don’t see this,’ and he fidgeted with the lock, pushed the door in.
They were cops accustomed to nigh on any reception. Neither of them could have forecast a skinhead. All of fourteen years old and wielding an iron bar. He shouted, ‘Fuck off outta it.’
‘Wot?’ in chorus.
The skin made a swipe with the bar, said: ‘I’ll do ye.’
Brant turned his back shrugged, then spun back, clouting the skin on the side of the skull. Flipped him, knelt on his back, said, ‘What’s yer game, laddie? Where’s the woman?’
‘Play fair, mate … jeez!’
Roberts had gone searching, shouted, ‘She’s here … in the bathroom.’
‘Is she OK?’
‘Debatable.’
Brant stood up, put a lock on the skin’s neck, gave him two open-handed slaps. ‘Whatcha do to her?’