Ammunition (6 page)

‘He was found on Canary Wharf, three bullets in the gut, two in the head.’

Was the case over then she wondered and, as if reading her mind, Roberts said:

‘It means he fucked up so they terminated his employment, next time, it will a more serious effort.’

She echoed:

‘Next time.’

Roberts was heading towards the car, said:

‘The next time they take a run at Brant.’

Roberts let her do the driving and seemed sunk in gloom, she asked:

‘Where to now, sir?’

He didn’t raise his head, said:

‘Good question.’

Backat the station, Roberts told her to go the canteen, get some teas, and bring them back to his office. She was going to protest that she was a policewoman, getting tea was not her job, but felt it wouldn’t be the best time to bring it up. So, with sarcasm barely concealed, she asked:

‘And how would
Sir
like it?’

Without missing a beat, he said:

‘Quickly.’

Seething, she was en route when the notice board caught her attention, the results of the sergeants’ exams were posted and she scrolled the names, saw Falls had made it, muttered:

‘That’s all I need.’

She knew Falls had failed twice already and this would have been her last shot, Andrews was confident Falls would fail again. But the cow had passed. The chances of Andrews making that rank were out the window now. Two female sergeants in the same station.

Yeah, like that was ever going to happen.

The whole day was down the toilet and she was running errands, like some airhead secretary. She’d have to rethink her whole strategy, get her name back up there in lights.

The worst part was, when she ran into Falls, she was going
to have to do that whole gushing delighted gig, act like she was over the bleeding moon. She could feel bile in her throat. A passing cop said:

‘The chief inspector wants to know if you’re brewing the tea yourself, you’d need to show a bit more initative.’

Words failed her.

Roberts rang the hospital, got the update on Brant, not only was the sergeant sitting up but complaining. Roberts had arranged for two armed cops to be on duty at Brant’s door.

Brant, on hearing the names of the two officers assigned, had said:

‘Those fucks are likely to shoot me themselves.’

If he kept whining, Roberts might take a shot too. He’d put the phone down, roared:

‘Where’s me bloody tea?’

The phone shrilled again and he snapped up the receiver, barked:

‘What?’

Heard:

‘Tut, tut, Chief Inspector, is that any way to answer a call?’

The posh bastard, the one who’d called about shooting Brant, Roberts counted to ten, then said:

‘Tell me you want to give yourself up.’

Heard that eerie cackle, like some crazed banshee, the guy said:

‘Here I am, doing your work for you, and I don’t detect… sorry, no pun intended, I don’t sense any gratitude.’

Andrews came in, put the tea on his desk, spilling a part on his files. He glared at her and she scarpered. He returned his attention to the call, asked:

‘Sorry, mate, what am I supposed to be grateful for?’

A moment’s hesitation, then:

‘Don’t be coy, Inspector, Canary Wharf… ring any bells?’

Roberts decided to go with it, said:

‘We discovered the body of a man there, so?’

A sound of irritation, then:

‘Don’t play silly buggers with me, Inspector, I’m trying to keep you in… how do they term it… ah yes, in the loop, but you’re trying my patience.’

Roberts felt a small victory. He’d annoyed the bastard, get him angry, he’d got careless. He said:

‘Are you telling me the man we found is connected to the shooting of Sergeant Brant?’

The guy’s voice had upped an octave, and he said:

‘Very good, Inspector. Yes, he was the shooter, if a rather poor one, so I felt it best to terminate his contract.’

Roberts chanced a gulp of tea, it burned like a mother, made him near retch and… no fucking sugar. He’d have Andrews’s arse, he asked:

‘You’re telling me you killed him, is that what you’re saying?’

‘Bravo, Inspector, you’re finally on the same page.’

This was one of those expressions that got up Roberts’s nose, nearly as bad as…
singing from the same hymn sheet
.

Roberts asked:

‘And now, where we do go from here?’

Another chuckle and the guy said.

‘You’re familiar with the expression, if at first…?’

Roberts felt a surge of adrenaline, asked:

‘You’re not seriously going to try again?’

As he said it, the voice said:

‘See, we’re singing from the same hymn sheet.’

Click.

He was gone.

The cops don’t want anybody to have guns except

them—I wonder why?
—Eddie Bunker

McDONALD PREPARED FOR his meet with the old-age vigilantes, that’s how he thought of them, get a pension and get armed. He wore a black track suit, put a knit cap in his pocket, pulled on a black windbreaker, and in the side pocket, slipped his Walther PKK.

This weapon he’d taken off a drug dealer in Brixton. It gave him a sense of power that continued to amaze him. He’d stood in front of the mirror, the weapon in his right hand, hanging loosely by his side, casual but lethal, a half smile on his face, asking his reflection:

‘You wanna fuck with me? Huh, that what you want?’

Why it came out in an American accent was not something he analysed. It just seemed to run with the deal. It felt… fitting. He’d levelled the gun at his reflection on many nights when he’d overindulged in the marching powder, thinking of the coke.

Man, that shit sneaks up on you, you start, like what, the odd line? Then a few more at the weekend, you know, ease the brewskis along, then fuck, next thing Monday mornings,
you wake, you are brewing coffee, hopping in the shower, popping bread in the toaster.

Are you, fuck?

You’re on your knees on the carpet, scraping up dust and hopefully remnants of cocaine and the damn question of course,
You got a little Jones going here, fellah?
Naw, course not, so your nose streamed a bit, it was fucking England, damp weather, what’d you expect?

Lately, he’d cut back on the old nose candy, got himself up to speed, in the real sense, scored some amphetamines, now those babes, they kept you sharp, kept you in the game and man, he so wanted to be a player, and if they wouldn’t let him be a force
in the Force
, then fuck ‘em, he’d get his own followers. So, they were old, you can’t get it all.

He put a few tabs of the speed in his trouser pocket and, yeah, he was ready to roll. He saluted himself in the mirror, said:

‘Let’s go
dispense
some frontier justice.’

He got the tube to Balham. The old codger had a council house just down from the station. He came out of the station and the minute he hit the street, he could feel the vibe, not exactly drums beating but the blood in the wind, the simmering violence in the air. He smiled, it was gonna be a good one. On his way to the house, two different guys gave him the hard stare, the granite-eyed question:

‘The fuck you looking at?’

He loved it, the dope cruising in his veins, the Walther
snug in his jacket. He began to hum the theme from
The Sopranos
.

His fervour faltered a little when he got into the house and old Bill introduced him to the crew. Jesus, how old were they?

Four of them, none under seventy. Bill said:

‘Meet the gang.’

McDonald snapped:

‘No names, this is a professional gig.’

Got their attention.

Already, from the street, he could hear the shouts, yahoos of the coming evening. One of the men looked nervously towards the window, and Bill said:

‘It’s early yet, they’re just warming up, come midnight they’ll be in full roar.’

McDonald said nothing for a moment, then asked:

‘You get everything?’

Bill, anxious to please, went to get the equipment and one of the guys asked McDonald:

‘You’re a copper?’

He had an edge, an accusation to his question.

McDonald said:

‘I’m
your
best hope is what I am.’

A guy wearing a tartan scarf asked:

‘What do you think we can do, they’re running riot out there?’

McDonald said:

‘We’re going to reclaim a tiny part of Great Britain.’

They stared at him with scepticism and he said:

‘First we take back this street and then who knows.’

Bill arrived back, with a bin liner, emptied the contents on the carpet, out tumbled baseball bats, balaclavas, cricket bats, and one lethal-looking hammer.

McDonald said:

‘Okay, let’s get primed.’

He doled out the various items and the men seemed unsure as they hefted the various weapons. McDonald asked:

‘Is there a key figure in the gangs?’

Bill said:

‘A West Indian kid, about twenty, he seems to control most of the activity. He’s always surrounded by four or five dangerous-looking guys, one black and three white guys.’

He sounded horrified that white men would be part of such mayhem. McDonald asked:

‘He got a name?’

One of the others said:

‘They call him “Trick”.’

McDonald smiled, said:

‘Trick or treat.’

He checked his watch, looked at Bill, said:

‘We have some time, how about some refreshments while I lay out the plan of action.’

Bill had sherry, some cider, and a bottle of gin that looked like it had been there since the Second World War. Bill dispensed mugs and McDonald did the host bit, poured gener
ous amounts of each beverage to his crew. He had a large gin himself, said:

‘Now listen up, this is not going to be pretty, once we get out there, you do exactly like I’m about to tell you. If you have any qualms, get to fuck home now.’

He waited, saw some nervous glances, but they stayed put, he said:

‘Good, now here’s how it’s going to go down.’

When he’d finished, one of the men, sipping sherry, asked:

‘Isn’t that a tad… drastic?’

McDonald walked over to him, stopped, then lashed out, knocking the mug across the room, said:

‘Don’t ever… ever question me. You want to live in fear, huddled under the sheets, or do you want to be a man?’

There was a stunned silence, then Bill said:

‘We’re with you, Boss.’

McDonald liked that, liked it a lot.

The four old men, McDonald watched them as the time ticked away and the noise from the street intensified. There was the guy in the tartan scarf who seemed gung ho, especially after the pint of cider. Next, was a guy with thick glasses, and McDonald tagged him as the owl. He might be useful if he could actually see anything. Bill, of course, and sitting beside him was a solid-looking man, who might have been a docker in his day. McDonald reckoned he’d be fine.
Then was there the librarian, you just knew he’d never swung anything more wieldly than a book.

McDonald went through the strategy again, insisting they not waver from this, the whole fuel being… fast and dirty.

He popped a tab of speed and told them to suit up. In the balaclavas, dark clothing, they seemed a touch more formidable but not really up to close scrutiny. He nodded and as they moved to the back door, the librarian halted, said: ‘I can’t… I can’t go out there.’

McDonald wanted to knock him on his arse, the whole deal could fold right there, he said:

‘Okay, that’s fine. You go and gather up some serious booze, you can be the provisions officer. We’ll need fortifying.’

And then they were moving along the back garden, McDonald held a thick length of pipe in his hand, they came round the street, McDonald in the lead, the four close behind.

Gathered round a minivan were a loud, boisterous group. The centre was a small guy in his twenties, swigging from a bottle of vodka, giving it large. Trick

As arranged, they waded in immediately, swinging bats, hammer, and not uttering a sound. They felled most of the gang in the initial assault, and McDonald was cheered to see the docker give a few extra kicks to the guy he’d dropped. Then McDonald was in front of Trick, whose jaw had literally dropped, he gasped: