Brant let him savour, then, ‘Can you let it slide?’
Guffaw.
‘In yer dreams, buddy.’
Brant was peaking, couldn’t believe his good fortune. Who could have prophesied such a horse’s ass? Decided to let the rope out a few more inches, said, ‘As a brother officer, I’m asking for a bit o’ slack. Doesn’t hurt to have a friend in The Met.’
Watson was off on it, power to full octane, said, ‘No way, Jose.’
Brant hung his head, and Watson, flying, said, ‘Don’t do the crime if…
Before he could finish, Brant was roaring:
‘Shudd-up, yah asshole, and get yer feet off the desk…
Brant leant over, nose to nose, said, ‘I tried to do it the easy way. But, oh no, Mister Bust-Yer-Chops gets all hot.’
Watson blustered, tried to get the reins back, ‘You’ve got nothing on me.’
‘Does M amp;S employ criminals?’
‘What … of course not!’
Brant took the paper from his jacket, slapped it on the table, said, ‘I draw yer attention to 1985.’
Watson looked, then, ‘You’ve no right to that, it’s not on my application form.’
Realising what he said, he shut down.
Brant read:
‘1985 — Watson — D amp;D — Suspended. They see this, they’ll bump yer ass from here to the dole queue.’
Watson said, ‘If I could … make it right with the other thing, you’ll go away?’
‘Well, I’ll call in now and again, see you’re not slacking.’
Resigned, Watson said, ‘The perp’s name again?’
‘Perp?’
‘You know … the perpetrator… He looked up, anxious to please, said, ‘The alleged … now cleared … person’s name?’
‘Paul Johnson.’
Brant threw his eyes round the closet, turned to leave.
Watson offered, ‘I was only doing my job.’
‘Naw … you’re a vicious little shit. Stay outta south-east London.’
Whining now, ‘Me old Mum lives there.’
‘Move her.’
Brant rang Mary, said, ‘It’s Brant.’
‘Oh hello, Tom.’
‘It’s done.’
‘What? Oh my God, Paul … Paul will want to thank you.’
‘No need.’
‘Tom, maybe we could all meet, have a meal, our treat?’
‘C’mon Mary.’
‘Oh.’
‘Goodbye then.’
‘Tom … Tom if ever we can…
But Brant had rung off.
Mary knew she should be elated but what she felt was a sense of let-down, a whisper of sadness.
The Coroner’s verdict on the Clapham Rapist was ‘Accidental Death’. Falls and McDonald sat on opposite sides of the hearing. Twice he’d tried to approach her, trying, ‘Can we move on?’
‘No.’
Then: ‘If we’re going to have to work together at least…
‘Fuck off.’
He’d let it be.
In an unusual development, the Coroner praised the police for the conclusion of a fraught and dangerous episode. Falls squirmed.
Outside, she managed to dodge most of the reporters. A woman came up to her and asked, ‘May I shake your hand?’
‘Ahm?’
She took Falls by the hand and said, ‘I want to thank you for ending the nightmare. I was number six. That piece of scum, I hope he rots in hell.’
The violence of the words and the ferocity of her manner pushed Falls backwards. She tried, ‘There is counselling available.’
A bitter laugh, ‘Oh you were all the counselling I needed.’ And then she was gone.
McDonald called, ‘Yo Sarah!’
‘Yeah.’
He caught up with her, said, ‘I don’t think I congratulated you on yer success.’
‘Thank you.’
She found it the easiest answer. She gave him a fast appraisal and thought, ‘Doesn’t half fancy himself.’
He held out his hand, ‘I’m McDonald.’
‘Weren’t you the…
‘Involved in the Clapham Rapist? I played a very minor role.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’re being modest.’
He gave her the full heat of his smile, turned it up to full dazzler. ‘Listen, whatcha say about a drink later?’
‘Ahm, I don’t know…
‘Hey, no strings … we work together so it’s no big deal.’
‘OK … why not?’
After he walked off she felt it was a bad idea. But hey, maybe they could be mates and keep it at that. She wasn’t convinced, not at all.
‘What do you know about scenery? Or beauty? Or any of the things that really make life worth living? You’re just an Animal, Coarse, Muscled, Barbaric.’ ‘You keep right on talking honey. I like the way you run me down like that.’ Barrie Chase and Robert Mitchum in ‘Cape Fear’. In the modern world
Roberts went into a record shop. The last record he’d bought had been by the Dave Clark Five. He was stunned by the shop. The sheer volume of the noise deafened him. Everybody looked like a drug dealer. Worse, he felt like a pensioner. Mainly he wanted to flee. But gathering his resources he marched up to a counter. An assistant, a girl who looked about twelve, said, ‘Yeah.’
‘Ahm … I’m looking for … a … Smokie…
‘CD or cassette?’
‘I think you can take it that if the customer is over forty, it’s a cassette.’
‘Is it hip-hop, dance, techno…?’
‘Whoa, wait a moment … they’re a pop group from the ’70s.’
‘Then you’ll want retro.’
Eventually, he was led to the cassette section and, no luck.
No Smokie.
They offered to order it, saying, ‘Seventies … cool.’
He declined.
Roberts’ sole passion was film noir of the forties and fifties. Now he resolved to re-bury himself in the genre. It was what he knew.
Lesson
Brant found Sarah in the canteen. She was about to have a tea and a danish.
He said, ‘Wanna see another side of policing?’
She gave the danish a look of longing.
He added, ‘I mean now.’
Grabbing her bag, she got up and Brant leant across, grabbed the danish, said, ‘Don’t want to waste that.’
The Volvo was outside and between bites, Brant said, ‘You drive.’
She got the car in gear and he said, ‘St. Thomas’s … mmm … this is delicious, must have been fresh in.’
Sarah was cautious in her driving, conscious of him watching.
He was.
He asked, ‘What’s this?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Yer driving like a civilian, put the bloody pedal to the metal.’
They found a space to park and walked back to the hospital. Brant said, ‘I frigging hate hospitals.’
‘Who are we seeing?’
‘A snitch, well probably an ex-snitch.’
Sarah wasn’t sure how to answer so she said, ‘Oh.’
Spiro was in an open ward on the third floor. He seemed to be covered in casts and bandages. His leg was suspended.
When he saw Brant, his eyes went huge with fear.
Brant smiled, said, ‘Spiro!’
Spiro’s eyes darted to Sarah and Brant said, ‘It’s OK, she’s a good ’un.’
He took a long look at the injuries, then asked, ‘Who did it?’
‘I dunno Mr Brant, I was attacked from behind.’
‘Sure you were.’
Spiro’s eyes pleaded to Sarah and he said, ‘I am very tired, I must sleep.’
Brant moved closer, said, ‘I don’t need you to say a dicky-bird. I’m going to mention a name and if it’s correct, just nod. That’s all and we’re gone.’
Sarah felt useless, gave Spiro a small smile.
Brant said, ‘Tommy Logan.’
For a few moments nothing; Spiro had closed his eyes. Then, a small nod.
Brant said, ‘OK, you need anything?’
Head shake.
Brant turned to Sarah, said, ‘Let’s go.’
They were on the ground floor before Sarah got to ask, ‘Who’s Tommy Logan?’
‘A murderin’ bastard is who.’
Things are entirely what they appear to be and behind them there is nothing. (Sartre)
Falls was shopping. With an air of total abstraction, her eyes kept wandering to the booze counter. The bottles called out, ‘Come and get us, ple-eze.’