Mick said, ‘They’re keen as mustard, chuffed to play for you.’
A stir at the door as the Super arrived. Harry the solicitor behind. Their wives were interchangeable. Like models of Mrs Thatcher. Tommy moved to greet them, signalling to a waiter for champagne. Outside, to the left of the crowd, Brant was leaning on his car, cigarette going. Roberts drove up, rolled down his window, said, ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’
‘You neither.’
‘You going to gatecrash?’
‘If you’re game.’
Roberts smiled, said, ‘Lemme park, I’ll get back to you.’
Brant flicked the cig away, said, ‘I’ll be here.’
When McDonald saw them approach, he went, ‘Oh, shit.’
Worse, they were smiling at him. Inside, the band were attempting ‘Working Class Hero’ as a touch of contempt.
But as usual, those who least understood the song were the ones who most appreciated it. Roberts said, ‘Bit of moonlighting, McDonald?’
‘Sir.’
They made to enter and he stepped in front of them, said, ‘Guv, I’ll have to see yer invites.’
Brant said, ‘Gee, we left them in the car.’
McDonald didn’t move and Roberts said, ‘S’cuse me son.’
He moved.
The first person they met was Tommy’s wife, Tina. She said, ‘I can’t believe you got invited.’
Roberts looked at her, said, ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
The Super glared at them across the hall. Brant waved. More people arrived and the place was becoming crowded. Brant asked Tina to dance, she said, ‘Get real.’
Tommy said to Mick, ‘I want them outta here.’
‘There’d be a scene.’
‘Are you saying let ’em be?’
‘For now.’
‘Fuckers!’
Food was served and Brant was first in line. Got double helpings. His plate overflowing, he moved back to Roberts, said, ‘The grub is good, guv, wanna try some?’
Roberts looked at it in disgust, said, ‘It would choke me.’
‘Food dunno from shit, guv … it’s like money.’
‘You’re getting very philosophical.’
‘Naw, just hungry.’
Like all shindigs worth the name, there was a raffle. Cops love them. Brant had a fistful of tickets, said to Roberts, ‘Do you feel lucky?’
‘Gimme a break!’ And he moved off.
First prize of a music centre went to Harry the solicitor.
Good humoured shouts of Fix! Fix! punctuated his acceptance of the prize. Tommy was doing the presentation. His face was shining, his triumph assured. He said, ‘Second prize of my own personal favourite, a Waterford crystal bowl, goes to a green ticket Number 93.’
When he saw who’d won, his face dropped. Brant. When Brant got to the stage, he gave Tommy a huge hug, whispered, ‘Ya wanker.’ Then stepped back as Tommy handed over the prize.
Brant took it, looked down at the crowd, then let go. The crystal shattered in a thousand pieces. Brant said, ‘Oops!’
On Brant’s way down the hall, he came face to face with the Super who said, ‘My office, nine of clock sharp.’
Brant smiled, said, ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
The band launched into a frenzied version of ‘Let’s Dance’.
Brant spotted Tina, asked, ‘Wanna quickstep?’
‘You’ve got to be kidding.’
‘Yeah, you’re too fat for it all right.’
Tommy was checking his speech. Before the party finished, he’d say a few words.
He said to Mick, ‘There’s no jokes, it needs humour.’ Mick thought, You’re the fuckin’ joke, but said, ‘Maybe it’s best to play it straight.’
‘You think?’
‘Yeah, more dignity, know what I mean?’
‘I can do dignified.’
When the time came, all the lights went out. A lone spotlight lit the stage. Tommy strode out. Looking down the hall, he was blinded and could see nowt. He began, ‘Officers and ladies…
A single shot rang and a small hole appeared over his right eye.
He gave a tiny ‘Ah,’ and fell backward.
Who shot TL?
The suspects were:
Brant
Roberts
Tina Logan
gang rival(s).
Brant and Roberts had received a bollocking from the Super and he let them know they were high on the suspect list. Now, over coffee, Brant said, ‘Well, guv, I know I didn’t shoot him, did you?’
‘No … but I’m shedding no tears.’
‘Who do you think?’
‘I strongly suspect you.’
Brant laughed. ‘What about Tina, his wife?’
‘She could have got somebody to do it. Who’d blame her. He sure needed shooting.’
Brant stretched, said, ‘It was a great party, I really enjoyed it.’
‘God forbid you shouldn’t be happy.’
The desk sergeant appeared, said, ‘Brant, there’s a call for you, a Paul Johnson.’
‘I’m not here.’
‘He says it’s urgent.’
‘Tough.’
The sergeant went away muttering.
Roberts asked, ‘Who’s Paul Johnson?’
‘My ex-wife’s husband.’
‘Oh!’
‘Oh is bloody right.’
McDonald was in the Super’s office. No Masonic hand-shit this trip. It was ball-busting and vehement.
The Super said, ‘For heaven’s sake, you were on the door and you didn’t see the shooter?’
‘It was pandemonium, sir. People were panicked and stampeding. Plus, there’s a fire escape leading from the projection booth to the street.’
‘The papers are having a field day. We’ve got to find the shooter and fast.’
McDonald had thought it over and decided to go for broke, said, ‘I think I know who it is.’
‘What? Spit it out man.’
‘DS Brant, sir.’
The Super’s eyes bulged.
‘Are you mad?’
‘Sir, he’d do anything for DI Roberts. He was there and he is without conscience. It has to be him.’
‘Can you prove it.’
‘I will, sir. I guarantee it.’
Now he was way out on a limb. If he was wrong, he’d be out on his ass.
The Super said, ‘OK, keep it under your hat. I don’t need to spell it out if you’re right or if Brant gets wind of your claim.’
‘I’ll be discreet, sir.’
‘You better be.’
Outside the office, McDonald wiped his brow. Sarah was coming along the corridor, asked, ‘Are we set for this evening?’
‘What?’
‘My place, I’m cooking dinner for you.’
‘Oh yeah … right … sure.’
He thought ‘a leg over’ was exactly what he needed. Calm him down and let him focus on frying Brant’s ass.
Falls was in the canteen, listening to the various stories on the party. People were poring over the tabloids. Falls asked, ‘Can I see the paper?’
One came sailing over to land on the table. The front page had a large photo of Tommy Logan, stretched on the stage. A man was bending over him and there was something about the tilt of his head. She muttered, ‘Oh no.’
She got up, ran from the canteen, the paper in her hand. Near collided with Roberts who said, ‘Whoa, where’s the fire?’
She pushed the paper at Roberts, cried, ‘Who’s that?’
‘Tommy Logan-the late Tommy Logan.’ She tried to control her hysteria, said, ‘Not him, the other one.’
‘That’s Mick Ryan, his lieutenant, the next in line.’
‘Ryan?’
‘Yes, do you know him.’
She gazed at the paper before answering, ‘No, no, I don’t know him at all.’
When McDonald knocked on Sarah’s door, he was carrying flowers and chocolates. On heat, he was anticipating the ride of his life. That she was a snotty little cow only fuelled his excitement. She opened the door, wearing a white silk kimono. Her breasts were tantalisingly on display. He moved inside, pushed her against the wall, began to grope. A few minutes and he’d have popped.
Pushing him away, she said, ‘Let’s whet our appetites.’
A glass of whiskey was already poured. She asked, ‘Is Glenfiddich OK?’
‘Aye, lass.’
Truth to tell, he’d never had it. So if it tasted a tad off, he wouldn’t know. Put mustiness down to quality.