‘Shut the fuck up. Jesus!’
She did.
Brant watching, gave a huge smile, said:
‘Welcome to the Met.’
The bomb had been posted to the canteen and Gladys had left it until later. Roberts gathered his team and as they took their seats, the phone went. He picked up, heard the metallic voice:
‘Sorry to interrupt your tea but this was a little incentive to get you up to speed. Remember the deadline, and now you know how vulnerable you are.’
Click.
Roberts looked round the room, said:
‘The Super is going to throw a blue fit. Did anyone ever think to monitor the post?’
Nobody had. They went back to assessing the results so far and concluded they had nothing. Later, the Bomb Squad reported that the bomb was the same as the previous two but had been designed to frighten rather than maim.
Roberts sighed, said:
‘Like that’s going to save my ass.’
When he got to finally see the Super, he was dreading the bollocking he knew was coming. Brown was having his afternoon tea, a Kimberley biscuit on the saucer. Roberts knew from horrendous experience that the Super dunked the biscuit and then strained it between his teeth, making loud slurping sounds as he did so. It was on a par with Imelda Marcos singing ‘Impossible Dream’ or William Shatner’s version of ‘Bridge Over Troubled Waters’. If anything, it probably had the edge in grotesqueness. To Roberts’ amazement, Brown was strangely subdued and the anticipated roaring might not be on the cards after all.
Brown took ages to look up, then finally:
‘There have been some developments.’
Roberts dared to hope, said:
‘There’s been a break in the case?’
The Super shook his head, seemed weighed down with fatigue, said:
‘The bomb in the canteen has put a different complexion on the whole case.’
Roberts got a real bad feeling: was he being replaced so soon? He said:
‘Sir?’
‘Yes, in light of this… escalation, it has been decided to pay the ransom.’
Roberts couldn’t believe his ears, said:
‘You’ve got to be kidding?’
Brown’s head snapped round and he seemed to be coming out of his trance, said:
‘Don’t take a tone with me, laddie. You think I like this any better than you do? The powers that be want it to go away and, once everything calms down, then we can concentrate on catching them.’
Roberts tried to stay controlled but said:
‘Sir, this is shite. It opens the way for every two-bit hustler to blackmail us. When word gets out we paid, we’re seriously compromised.’
Brown focused and levelled his gaze on Roberts, said:
‘You have your orders, sonny.’
Roberts pushed down the number of replies he wanted to give; it even crossed his mind to resign, which would have been noble. He’d packed in all notions of that after his wife died. The chances were the resignation would be accepted and then what would he do? Return to drinking gut-rot red wine? The Super raised the biscuit, held it over the tea and said:
‘You’re to be the bagman.’
A sad smile leaked from Roberts’ mouth, the Super caught it, asked:
‘What’s the joke, lad?’
‘Bagman, sir, that’s exactly the term the bomber used.’
‘So?’
‘So it’s ironic that we are reduced to being messengers for these kind of thugs.’
‘Irony is not the business of the police.’
‘Maybe it should be, is that all… sir?’
The biscuit was now immersed in the cup and Roberts had to move fast. Brown waved him away. Even outside the door, Roberts could hear the slurping begin. He wasn’t looking forward to informing the team that they were fucked. Plus, he had the money to arrange. Brant was leaning against the door of his office and asked:
‘How did it go?’
‘Worse than you can imagine.’
Brant lit a cig, watched Roberts’ face for a moment, then said:
‘They’re going to pay?’
Roberts thought he was all done with being surprised at Brant, asked:
‘How the hell did you know that?
‘No big deal, they’re cowardly fucks.’
Roberts thought that Brant was taking it pretty well, said:
‘You’re taking it pretty well.’
Brant shrugged, went:
‘Just means we’ll have added motivation to get the fucks.’
Roberts wasn’t sure if he meant the bombers or the brass and with Brant you never could tell. Roberts said he’d better go get the money arranged and Brant said:
‘It’s a fine whack of cash. You think you could slide a few hundred aside, we could have a bit of a drink with it?’
‘Are you serious?’
Brant’s smile was in place and he said:
‘Who’s going to notice a wedge off the top?’
Roberts shook his head but he did actually think about it.
Later in the day, a guy arrived from headquarters, dressed in a pinstripe suit and carrying a large briefcase. Roberts asked:
‘Are you a cop or a banker?’
The man had yellow teeth, which spoiled the suit and clashed with his shining white shirt. He said:
‘Is that really relevant?
‘It is to me.’
‘I’ll need another witness while I count the money.’
Roberts couldn’t believe his ears, asked:
‘You didn’t count it already?’
The man regarded him coldly and Roberts summoned Brant, who gave the guy a slap on the back, said:
‘You’re doing God’s own work there, you know that?’
The guy stared at Brant as if he was something he’d found on his shoe and asked:
‘And you are who, exactly?’
Brant was delighted with him, answered:
‘Trouble.’
He began to extract the piles of money and put a small calculator beside them. Then in a monotonous drone he began to count. Brant waited till the guy was halfway then touched his arm, asked:
‘Get you something?’
The guy was spluttering with rage, said:
‘You made me lose my place, I’ll have to start over.’
Roberts said nothing. The guy began again, this time, trying to keep an eye on Brant. Finally it was over and he handed a chit for Roberts to sign. When this was done, Brant asked:
‘You want to go get a beer or something?’
The guy looked like he wanted to scream but in a patient voice he said:
‘I don’t think so.’
Brant turned to go, said:
‘Fine, but I thought if you’d a few drinks you wouldn’t take it so hard.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Brant indicated a pile of money that was still on the table, said:
‘You missed that lot or does it matter?’
It mattered.
I was for the first and probably last time in my life propositioned by a man.
‘Come and have a drink,’ he said.
‘Where do you suggest?’ I asked.
‘There’s a YMCA round the corner, and afterwards we could go to my place.’
I began walking away fast. He ran after me.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘Aren’t you interested in queerness?’
11
Angie was in the other room planning her great caper and Ray Cross was watching the Australian prison drama, Oz. He really enjoyed the brutality of the series. He’d done four years for a building society heist and his brother Jimmy had done two. He never intended returning to prison and he watched every jail drama to reinforce his conviction. He even watched Bad Girls and, of course, there was always the hope of a little lezzie action in that. The one sure thing you could say about Ray was he always had a drink on the go. This occasion it was Schnapps; Jimmy had boosted a Safeway and piled a lorry with every type of booze under the supermarket sun. The German spirit was going down easy and he had a nice buzz building. He stood up, stretched. Tall, he’d been told many times of his resemblance to the actor James Woods, and it made him feel good. JW was your stone psycho. Ray had Salvador on vid. But his all-time favourite was The Onion Field, where Woods played the cop-killer who, in the nick, manipulated all around him. It was the sense of total danger that Woods emanated. Ray worked on his mannerisms and pretended to be surprised when people remarked on them.