Calibre (4 page)

‘I now know it’s about protecting us, usually from them.’

They were out of the car and she felt an actual weakness at the knees as she took full stock of him, ventured:

You want to maybe get a drink or something later?’

A plane droned overhead and he looked up, then:

‘You mean like a date?’

So okay, she wanted him and hadn’t they just pulled it off as a team, so she smiled, softened her features, said:

‘Yeah, why not. I could cook something. It’s been awhile since I got domestic’

He gave her his full blue eyes attention, said:

‘Thing is, I don’t fuck lesbians.’

“Play dead? Play dead? What the fuck’s that all about? You want a dead broad, you just kill the bitch that way, you don’t gotta pay her either.”

—Nick Tosches,
In the Hand of Dante
.

PORTER HAD GONE into the pub and spotted Trevor straight away. He’d ordered a vodka and tonic, slimline, and got a full smile. Checked out the guy’s butt and thought:

‘Mmm.’

Trevor was changing a barrel and pushed that butt out to max effect, then looked up, asked:

‘See anything you like?’

Took it from there. Porter hadn’t been with anyone for ages and the sex was thus fast and fevered. Trevor, lying back in Porter’s bed, asked:

‘What, you just got out of prison?’

Porter gave a laugh, went:

‘Hardly, I’m a cop.’

Trevor, familiar with the workings of the Met, said:

‘They don’t go to prison?’

‘Not this one.’

So the relationship began. Trevor on leaving, with cab fare from Porter, said:

‘I’m not a quick shag, I want something meaningful.’

So did Porter.

He didn’t get back to Trevor for a time as he’d launched a full investigation into accidents during the previous weeks and, sure enough, two fit the so-called ‘hits’ that Ford claimed. The media had run with the story, proclaiming:

MANNERS PSYCHO ON LOOSE.

They were treating it more as filler, didn’t really believe it was true. For this Porter was grateful; he’d a bad feeling that this was going to get very serious. Witnesses were none. Family and work colleagues of the two did concede that both victims were:

‘… difficult, inclined to rudeness.’

The Super had Porter in again, asked:

‘Is it true, did he kill two people?’

Porter moved cautiously, stammered:

‘It’s pos-sible, but we’re still checking.’

Brown wasn’t impressed, shouted:

‘What’s with the stuttering, is that a gay thing, a type of lisp coyness?’

Porter had to bite down, went:

‘Sorry, sir, when I’m nervous, it happens.’

The Super looked as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, shook his head, said:

‘Get it sorted. I don’t want this to escalate.’

Porter took a deep breath, ventured:

‘Should we consider a task force?’

The Super rose out of his chair, a very bad sign, pointed his finger, and said:

‘Task force? Are you bonkers? It’s some piddling lunatic trying to get his moment of fame. Shut him down now.’

Porter wanted to ask: ‘How?’

Settled for:

‘Yes, sir.’

Outside he realized he was sweating, used a hankie to wipe his brow, and heard:

‘Hot enough for you?’

Brant.

Porter tried to shrug it off, said:

‘It’s this Manners case. Probably nothing.’

Brant smiled, then:

‘You ask me, it’s going to run and run.’

Porter, horrified, said:

You can’t be serious.’

‘Serious as AIDS.’

And was gone.

Brant was on a roll. He and Roberts had gone to meet with Caz, the snitch. Met him in a pub; as usual he was wearing a garish shirt. He wasn’t happy that Brant had broken the
rules and brought along Roberts. The whole fragile basis of snitching depended on one-to-one.

Brant was unfazed, said:

‘So I broke the rules, get over it.’

Roberts was unimpressed with Caz and expected it to be a waste of time. He was wrong. When Brant asked about the car-ring, Caz not only knew about it but provided the address of the garage where the operation was and the names of the three central villains. Brant sat back and said:

‘Nice one, Caz.’

Caz, fingering his gold medallion, asked:

‘Do I get paid now?’

Brant nodded, said:

‘The cheque’s in the post.’

And they were out of there. Roberts had been scoring a hundred out of a hundred of his cases recently. No matter what he turned to, it seemed he had the Midas touch. Now, yet again, he was about to look gold. When the cops raided the garage for the hot cars, the first one they recovered was the Super’s. He took Brant for a celebratory drink a few nights later. They went to a place on Charing Cross Road, newly opened. The owner was an ex-cop, and, whatever else, they’d drink free.

Roberts, to celebrate his success, had splurged on a new suit, bought in Marks and Spencer. He felt it was only right as their fortunes had recently taken a turn for the best. Winners together. He selected a brown pin-striped number as the
salesgirl, who appeared to be from Bosnia, assured him it was the style of the season. He winced a little at the price, but what the hell, the sale of his house had given him a little extra and promotion was surely but a stripe away.

Brant appeared in a sweat-shirt that bore the logo:

EAT SHIT.

And stone-faded jeans that had a tiny hole in the knee. Roberts said:

‘You’re bloody kidding.’

‘What?’

‘I thought we were doing a class number?’

Brant fingered a tiny pin of a silver bird on his sweat-shirt, mocked:

‘Ah, Guv, you think class is about clothes?’

He was forever hectoring Roberts that class was about exactly that, which was one of the reasons Roberts had laid out the small ransom for his suit. The ex-cop, waiting patiently behind the bar, smiled at the exchange. He knew all about Brant. Mainly that he was a contrary fucker. He was appalled that Roberts was wearing what appeared to be a shit-coloured suit. Brant looked to him, went:

‘Jim-bo, a pint of your best ale for the star of the Met and a large Jameson.’

Roberts whined: ‘I’m drinking beer?’

Brant, who was reaching for his Peter Jacksons, said:

‘Sir, in that outfit, I’m afraid it has to be beer.’

Roberts was offended, asked:

‘You don’t like the suit?’

Brant gave it a full, intense scrutiny, and, his lip curled. He said:

‘You really shouldn’t buy stuff in the market.’

‘Market? This is from Marks and Spencer. Do you know how much this cost?’

He could hardly get the words out from rage.

Brant reached over, felt the lapel, said:

‘No wonder the shop is gone down the tubes. Was it on special offer?’

Roberts gulped down half the pint, said:

‘Well, at least I’m not wearing torn jeans.’

Lame, he knew it was a poor retort. Brant fingered the hole in his jeans, seemed delighted with it, said:

‘Bullet-hole, sir, line of duty and all that.’

There were times Roberts truly hated Brant, wanted to put a fist hard in his mouth and beat on him for an hour. This was one of those times. He said to the barman:

‘Give me a large Bells and another of those Irish things for him.’

Brant was still staring at the suit, said:

‘Don’t worry, sir, the light in here, people won’t see it too well.’

Roberts lashed down the scotch, said:

‘Gee, that’s a real help. What’s with the bloody silver bird on your sweatshirt?’

Brant touched the pin with what appeared to be real affection, said:

‘That’s the laughing kookaburra.’

Roberts was seriously sorry he’d asked, went:

‘Like that is supposed to make sense?’

‘Aussie, sir, gets its name from its call, which sounds like mad laughter, a member of the kingfisher family, lives off snakes, mice, and lizards.”

Roberts thought it was a good description of Brant. They took a seat and Brant immediately put the chat on two women nearby. As always, Roberts was amazed at how women responded to him, couldn’t they see what a pig he was.

Nope.

Next minute they’d joined them and Roberts was sitting beside a fine woman with a see-through blouse. He could never figure out if you were supposed to look or keep your eyes averted. Brant solved the dilemma by saying:

‘Lady you are stacked. Is that the wonders of Wonderbra or just you?’

She was delighted and Roberts knew if he’d ever in his wildest dreams said anything similar, he’d have had a drink flung in his face. The second woman seemed as wild as Brant, which is saying something. She asked what they did.
Brant said they were accountants to huge laughter from the women, which encouraged Brant to add:

‘A suit like my mate’s, one of the perks of the job.’

A long, dizzy conversation focused on the merits of said suit and Roberts resolved to burn the bloody thing. When the women excused themselves to go to the ladies, Brant said:

‘You’re in for a ride there, sir.’

Roberts, determined to score some point in the evening, asked:

And what if I don’t want—as you so delicately term it—the “ride”?’

Brant was middrink, putting away double Jameson’s like a good ‘un, paused, seemed puzzled, then:

‘You’ll have to, just to prove a point.’

‘Point? What bloody point?’

‘To prove you’re not gay’

‘What the hell are you saying?’

Brant seemed genuinely confused, said:

‘I told them you were gay, and they said you’d have to be to get away with such an outrageous suit.’

Roberts was reeling. There were so many reasons to wallop Brant he didn’t know where to begin, so he weakly croaked:

‘Why on earth would you tell them I’m gay?’

‘Tactics, sir. See, women love a challenge, you owe me, pal.’

The women returned, more booze and then a late-night dancing club.

Dancing.

Yeah, Roberts attempting to revive the dying art of jiving, Brant at the edge of the dance floor, a sardonic smile in place and his hand up the woman’s dress, almost as an afterthought. Then Soho for dawn kebabs, which is the very worst idea on a feast of booze but seemed mandatory. Later, Roberts would recall hot, sweaty sex and veritable gymnastics from himself. When he surfaced the next day, around two, the very first thing he saw was his crumpled suit looking like elephants had stampeded it, and in the lapel a shining beacon, the bloody kookaburra, and he was definitely laughing. Roberts had bought a tiny maisonette on the Kennington Park Road, with a minute garden at the rear. Dying from his hangover, he’d dragged himself there and set fire to the suit, it burned fiercely as if it didn’t wish to go lightly into the good day. The pin, alas, refused to catch fire.

‘FULL AS A GOOG.’

Extremely drunk. Comes from the Scottish word ‘goggie,’ a child’s word for egg. It is a variation on an earlier Australian phase in the same sense, full as a tick.’ Later combinations include full as a Bourke Street tram’ and full as a bull’s bum.’

FALLS WAS OFF the school detail, as McDonald had predicted. Because they did well, they were quickly transferred. McDonald was shunted to traffic, and Falls was behind a desk doing paperwork. Stuck in a tiny cubbyhole in the basement, her job was to sift through old cases, see if there was anything needed updating.

A nothing task.

Even if she found a case that might benefit from review, there wasn’t a hope in hell that it would get attention. The squad was up to its neck in current stuff, so an old file wasn’t going to be considered. Everyone knew she’d been banished. Her only hope was to bide her time and see if a chance came down the pike. She gritted her teeth, half missed the schools.

WPC Andrews was relatively new, had been under Falls’s wing for a time, and then done well. Brant had given her a turn, as he did all the new women, then dropped her. She was now on foot patrol in Clapham. She’d reported for work and heard about Falls in the dungeon, as the basement was known.

She got a tea and a slice of Danish from the canteen, headed down there. Met Brant, who asked:

‘What, you’re a waitress now?’