He leaned against the cupboard and waited for the four stars to kick in. They did. Fast. And he muttered, ‘Jaysus.’
After a few more slugs, he moved to the armchair and with a steady hand, lit a Weight. He knew who his assailant was. The so called ‘Alien’, the legendary fuck. Only one person would have the balls to set him loose. With Fenton it was just a job, but to the one calling the shots, it was personal. Brant began to savour how he’d boil the two of ’em together. Not with bloody cold water either.
Leigh Richards was a snitch. What’s more, he was Falls’ snitch, passed on by Brant who said, ‘The most vital tool for police work is a grass. One of their own who’ll turn for revenge, spite or money. But mainly money. Fear, too, that helps. I’m giving you this piece of garbage, ’cos I can no longer stomach ’im.’
After meeting Leigh, Falls could understand why. Years ago, Edward Woodward made his name playing a character called Callan. He had a sidekick named Lonely. Leigh was the Lonely of the turn of the century. No specific reason that made him distasteful. Everything about him was ordinary. So much so that he looked like a photo-kit. Everybody and nobody. If there’s such a thing as auras, then his spelt ‘repellent’.
He said to Falls, ‘This is a new departure for me.’
‘What?’
‘Working with a woman.’
Falls had a constant urge to lash out at him. Ordinarily, she was no testier than your average Northern Line commuter, but once in Leigh’s presence, she felt murderous. She said slowly, ‘Listen, shithead, we’re not working together. We never have, never will — am I getting this across?’
He had his hair cut in a French crop. This is a crew-cut with notions. His eyes never met yours, and yet, he never ceased watching you. That’s what Falls felt — she felt watched.
He put up his hands in mock surrender, said, ‘Whoa, little lady! No offence meant.
I like niggers, anyone will tell you Leigh Richards isn’t a bigot. Go on, ask anybody … you’ll see. Live and let live is my motto.’
If Falls had sought Roberts’ advice, he’d have said, ‘Never trust a grass.’ He knew from bitter experience. More, he could have recounted the lines from The Thin Man:
‘I don’t like crooks.
And If I did like them, I wouldn’t like crooks who are stool pigeons.
And if I did like crooks who are stool pigeons, I still wouldn’t like you.’
Roberts would have liked to rattle off the lines anyway because he liked to. Plus, he’d love to have been Nora Charles’ husband. But she didn’t ask and the lines stayed on celluloid — unwatched and unused.
Instead, Falls counted to ten and then she smacked Leigh in the mouth. His feelings, not to mention his mouth, were hurt.
He said, ‘My feelings are hurt,’ and he figured it was time to rein Falls in. Let her see a little of his knowledge, know who she was dealing with. He said, ‘I know you. I know yer Dad died recent, and more, you couldn’t cough up the readies to plant him.’ He had her attention and continued, ‘My old Dad snuffed it too. See this belt?’
In spite of herself, she looked. It appeared to be a boy scout one, right down to the odd buckle.
‘When I went to the morgue, the guy said: “It’s all he left, shall I sling it?” Oi! I said, that’s my estate!’
Falls didn’t smile, but Leigh could go with that. He’d smacked her right back and never even had to raise his hand or his voice.
She asked, ‘There’s a moral in there?’
‘Like the great man said — “Be prepared!”’
‘Who?’
‘Baden Powell, founder of the scouts.’
Falls gave a harsh chuckle, said, ‘They weren’t real popular in Brixton.’
‘Oh …
‘But let me give you a little story.’
Leigh didn’t care for the light in her eye. He’d heard blacks got funny when they mentioned Brixton. Shit — when anybody mentioned it. He said: ‘There’s no need.’
‘I insist. The cat asked: “Do you purr?” “No,” said the ugly duckling. “Then you’ll have to go.”’ She let Leigh digest this then, ‘So, you’re a snitch … then snitch.’
‘I’ll need paying.’
‘After.’
‘It’s good information.’
‘Mr Brant was anxious to locate two Irish people, a man and a woman.’
‘So?’
‘He believes they can help with his … ahm … recent accident.’
‘Do you know where they are?’
‘I know where they went.’
‘Yeah.’
‘One of them was wearing a nice pair of Farahs as he boarded the plane — a plane for Amer-i-kay.’
In spite of herself, she uttered, ‘Jesus.’
Leigh was excited, babbled on, ‘According to my sources, a certain young copper was wearing said pants on the night of his demise.’
Falls grabbed both his wrists and, Brant-style, leant right into his face, said, ‘Their names?’
‘Josie … and Mick … that’s all I know.’
She squeezed harder.
‘Belton … OK! Mick Belton — you’re hurting me!’
She let go, then reached in her purse and began to gather loose notes. He said in alarm, ‘For Godsake, don’t do it like that — palm it!’
She did and he squeezed her fingers during the move, said, ‘I have a good feeling about us.’
‘Yeah?’ She sounded near warm.
Emboldened, he risked, ‘You’ll find me more than satisfactory in the … ahm … And here he winked.
She whispered, ‘And you ever talk to me like that, you’ll find it in Brixton among the used condoms and other garbage.’
Then she was up and moving. He waited till she was a distance, then said, ‘Yah lesbian!’
The Alien was sitting in The Greyhound, in Bill’s private corner. He was drinking a mineral water, slowly savouring the sparkle. Bill arrived with two minders. They branched off to man both ends of the bar. Fenton said, ‘Impressive.’
Bill looked back at them. ‘Yeah?’
‘Oh definitely, real menace.’
Bill sat down and nodded to the barman. A bowl of soup was brought and two dry crackers. They were encased in that impossible to open plastic. Bill nodded at them, said, ‘Get those, eh?’
‘Why don’t you call the muscle, give em a chance to flex.’
Bill smiled, ‘You wouldn’t be trying to wind me up would you Fen?’
‘Naw, would I do that?’
Bill was quiet for a bit, then, ‘You did the biz?’
‘Course.’
‘Didn’t overdo it, did yah?’
‘Naw, just put a frightener to him — he’s mobile but dampened. You’ll have no more strife.’
‘I wouldn’t want any of this coming back on me, Fen.’
‘It’s done, you’ve no worries. He’s tamed — nowt for him now but nickel and dime till he gets his shitty pension. He’s bottled out.’
Bill passed over a fat package. ‘A little bonus, help you find yer feet in America … you’ll be off soon.’
‘Soon as shootin’.’
They both gave a professional laugh at this, not that either thought it as funny or even appropriate.
This is how the call came in.
‘Hello, is that the police?’
The desk sergeant, weary after an all-nighter, answered, ‘Yeah, can I help?’ Not that he had a notion of so doing.
‘I’m about to eat my breakfast.’
‘How fascinating.’
‘When I’ve finished, I’ll wash up, and then I’m going to kill my old man.’
‘Why’s that then?’
‘He molested me till I was twelve. Now I think he’s going to start on my little brother …
The sergeant was distracted by a drunk being manhandled by two young coppers. At the pitch of his lungs, he was singing: ‘The sash my father wore … No big deal in that, unless you noted the man was black. Thus perhaps giving credence to the expression ‘a black protestant’ or not.