He opened a beer but barely touched it, gave her forty-five minutes, then, ‘Honey, I’ve got to go.’
She came storming out, ‘How? I hear no phone.’
‘My mobile, very discreet but it’s urgent.’
‘But the dinner … is ready … have pocito, taste.’
He was already at the door, ‘I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.’
‘Will I wait?’
‘No, it’s an all nighter.’
He waited outside in the Volvo. He figured she was cunning but none too smart. They rarely got to be both. After half-an-hour, a cab pulled up, she came out, gave her destination, never looked round. She lived in Streatham, back of the swimming pool. A row of terraces in the passageway, she went into the second.
As he drove away, he phoned Roberts, asked, ‘Like to see a video?’
‘What now?’
‘It’s a one-off, you’ll recognise the star.’
‘Do I bring anything.’
‘Handcuffs, probably.’
The picture was quality, none of that grainy effect. If Brant thought it was strange to watch her in his own kitchen, he didn’t show it. Just smoked a lot of Weights. They could see her put the paella on the plates then go to her bag, extract a small bottle and douse one plate.
Brant said, ‘Guess who that’s for.’
Then she was gone.
Brant explained, ‘It’s me telling her I’m off.’
Back she came and they could see her rage as she scraped the dishes into the bin.
Roberts asked, ‘You have the bin?’
‘Oh yeah.’
Next she tidied up, washed all the gear, even wiped the floor. Roberts said, ‘Good little housekeeper though.’
Brant smiled, answered, ‘Deadly.’
The lab test showed liquid arsenic.
Roberts asked, ‘Wanna come when we give her a tug?’
‘No … I’ll pass I think.’
Later, Roberts said, ‘Buy you a drink?’
‘Yeah great, but a pub with no barmaids.’
‘Right.’
After they’d had a few, Roberts asked, ‘Wanna hear about it?’
‘Sure.’
‘She had a reason.’
‘Oh good, that makes it all right then.’
Roberts signalled for another round, said, ‘She claims she never intended to kill, just to sicken you as it is men always sickened her.’
Brant took a belt of scotch, said, ‘A nutter eh?’
‘Barking.’
Roberts felt he should offer some support or even solace. But, all he could give was, ‘Don’t let it put you off women.’
Brant gave a huge belch, said, ‘It sure as hell put me off paella.’
Benediction moon
‘I’m a spiritual person,’ the man said to Porter Nash. It was a rite of passage at any new station, you got the loopy cases. This was certainly that.
The man had been attacked by a pimp and a hooker. They’d given him a sound thrashing. Nash asked, ‘How did you happen to ah … meet these people?’
The man sighed, he didn’t suffer fools gladly.
‘I go to professional ladies and to demonstrate their baseness to them, I pay them in a similar coinage.’
‘You’re not a priest, are you?’
Tolerant smile, ‘I’m a deacon of the flesh.’
Nash read the charge sheet again. He was getting a migraine. He said, ‘You gave the lady two forged fifties.’
‘It’s debauchery, paid for by deceit.’
Nash asked, ‘Where do you get the funny money?’
‘A chap in an ale house had a bag of them, a British Homes Store brand … yes, I’m sure of that.’
Nash said, ‘You’ll go down for … something.’
The man stood up, ‘I’ll embrace the penitentiary.’
‘Believe me, they’ll help you.’
As they took him away, he shouted, ‘I see auras.’
‘Course you do.’
‘And yours, sir, is blue.’
Nash had to ask, ‘That good?’
‘’Ish.’
He went to the canteen and the tea lady was delighted anew with his manners. Ordered tea and got two slices of toast he hadn’t ordered, said, ‘I didn’t order toast.’
She gave a full silver toothed smile, ‘It’s my little treat.’
‘Gosh … how wonderful.’
Thinking, if he got five minutes with a novel, he’d better meet the day. Had a round of toast drenched and dripping in butter, then opened his book.
‘Can I join you?’
Falls.
He thought, Ah, shag off, is it too much to ask for a few minutes?
He said, ‘Please do.’
She asked, ‘Wotcha reading?’
‘It’s Jane Smiley’s A Thousand Acres.’
‘I dunno her.’
He wanted to roar, ‘Quelle surprise!’, but said, ‘She won the Pulitzer.’
‘That’s good?’
‘It’s not bad.’
‘Is it good?’
‘Well, I’m only on the third acre but it’s boring the pants off me.’
She laughed, said, ‘Thanks for not treating me like an ignoramus.’
He offered the toast, saying, ‘It’s heaven.’
She took it, asked, ‘How’d you get toast like this?’
He only smiled, so she said, ‘I think we’re mates.’
Nod.
‘So, can I ask your opinion.’
He gave her the final slice, a true sacrifice and said, ‘I’m a good choice cos I tell people what they want to hear.’
‘Oh God, don’t do that.’
‘OK.’
‘There’s a man…
‘I hear you.’
She glanced around, she sure as hell didn’t want anyone to hear, asked, ‘How do I know if it’s … you know … love?’
This Nash could do. He smiled said, ‘A few questions will answer that.’
‘Oh.’
‘Do you wanna go for it?’
‘Ahm…OK, I think.’
‘Do you think of him [here Nash did an American accent] like all the time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you got the runs?’
She laughed and nodded. ‘Is your appetite screwed? Do songs seem to be directed specifically at you? Do you want to do nothing but stare out the window?’
‘Yes, yes, yes.’
‘Now for the biggie, the litmus test.’
Falls felt nervous, said, ‘I feel nervous.’
‘So you should, here goes.’
He went American again.
‘Would you, like, just die if you saw him with somebody else?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Then I must inform you, WPC Falls, that you are completely and irrevocably in love, and may God have mercy on your soul.’
Later, rearranging his CDs, he pulled out ‘Benediction Moon’. Its mix of keening loss, awareness, and wonder were the articulation of a heart on fire.
Let’s party
A warehouse near the Elephant had been transformed. A crowd had gathered outside to see the party-goers arrive. When Tommy Logan got there he gave two fingers to the crowd. That they understood. Gave him a rousing cheer. ‘My people,’ he said.
As fixed, security was provided by off duty cops. McDonald was on the door, he said to Tommy: ‘Good evening, sir.’
Tommy palmed him a ten, said, ‘Keep up the good work.’
Inside the band were tuning up. Tommy said to Mick, ‘Who are they?’
‘The band you requested.’
‘Can they play?’
‘They’re a spit from being famous, guv.’
The warehouse had lived many lives. At one stage it had been a cinema and a balcony ran along the back. The projection room was still intact. A flight of stairs led from it to the street. Mick moved up to the band, said to the surly Matt, ‘Get started.’
‘We’re artists man, we don’t just start.’
Mick hopped lightly on to the stage, went nose-to-nose, said, ‘You’re history if you don’t and never, like fuckin’ never call me man, get it?’
He got it.
They kicked off with a cover of The Verve’s ‘Bittersweet Symphony’, the extended one.
Tommy said, ‘Sounds like the Rolling Stones.’
Mick was clued, said, ‘Based on “The Last Time”!’
‘It’s good, they’re OK.’