The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead (15 page)

He snatched the sawn-offs and chucked them to Doug and Fenton, said: ‘’Cos you guys are a blast.’

He took the handguns and, holding them down by his sides, added: ‘No need for the bats, eh? This is purely a shooting party’ Albert smiled, thought of the gun he’d looted. Now he’d be truly loaded.

Fiona Roberts knew her marriage was bad, and often woesome. But she was determined to keep it. If it meant lying down with the dogs... or dog, then she’d suffer the fleas. She wasn’t sure how to dress for a blackmail date. Did you go mainline hooker or bag lady? A blend of the two perhaps. When Brant had said he wished to ‘woo’ her, she’d nearly laughed in his pig face. But instinct had held her tongue and she knew she could maybe turn everything round. So she agreed, he was to pick her up at Marble Arch. Ruefully she reflected it was a hooker’s landmark. A cab took her there and, as she paid the fare, the driver said: ‘Bit cold for it, luv.’

‘How dare you!’

‘What?’

‘Your implication. I don’t think I know what you are saying.’

‘Get a grip, darlin’. I didn’t mean nuffink unless civility has been outlawed.’

‘Hmmph!’

She slammed the door and he took off with her tenner.

Brant was turning into the Arch with the radio blaring. Chris Rea was doing ‘Road to Hell’ and Brant hoped it wasn’t an omen. He stopped, flung open the door, shouted: ‘Hiya, ducks!’

She’d been expecting the Volkswagen Golf, but realised he’d keep her on the hop. As she got in she saw him eying her legs but refrained from comment. Without a word he did a U-turn and swung back towards Bayswater. A highly dangerous move.

She said: ‘Illegal, surely?’

‘That’s part of the rush.’

She smoothed her dress over her legs and he asked: ‘Hungry?’

‘Why, have you another greasy spoon to slum in?’

‘Hey!’ And he gave her a look. She could have sworn he appeared hurt and she thought: ‘Good.’

He swerved to avoid a cyclist and said quietly: ‘I’ve booked at Bonetti’s.’

She didn’t say anything, and he added: ‘Well?’

‘Well what? I have never heard of it.’

‘It’s in the Egon Ronnie.’

‘Ronnie? That’s Ronay.’

‘Whatever, I thought you’d be pleased.’

And she was, kind of.

Roberts got the call before six. ‘Chief Inspector Roberts, is that you?’

‘Yeah.’

This is Governor Brady, over Pentonville.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘I have a chappie on B wing, might be of interest to you.’

‘Why?’

‘You are still in charge of the Umpire investigation, aren’t you?’ A note of petulance crept in as he added: ‘I mean you are interested in solving the cricket business?’

‘Of course, absolutely. I’m sorry, it’s been a long day.’

‘Try a day in the Ville sometime.’

Roberts wanted to shout: ‘Get on with it, fuckhead,’ but he knew the butter approach was vital, and with a trowel, said: ‘You do a terrific job there, Governor, it can’t be easy.’

‘That’s for sure.’

‘So, this man you’ve got, you think he might be our boy?’

‘He says he is.’

‘Oh.’

‘Came in yesterday on a GBH. We had to stick him on B because of his psychotic behaviour.’

‘Might I come see?’

‘I’ll be waiting.’

When Roberts put down the phone, he didn’t feel any hope. They were up to their asses in Umpires, all nutters and all bogus. But he’d have to check it out.

As Brant parked the car, he said: ‘This Volvo is like my ex.’

‘Yes?’

‘Too big and too heavy.’

‘Gosh, I wonder why she left you.’

The maître d’ made a fuss of them, placed them at the best table, said: ‘Always glad to be of service to our police.’

Fiona sighed. The restaurant was near full and a hum of conversation carried. Two huge menus were brought. She said: ‘You order.’

‘Okey-dokey.’

A young waiter danced over and gave them a smile of dazzling fellowship. Brant asked: ‘What’s the joke, pal?’

‘Scusi?’

‘Jeez
,
another wop. Give us a minute, will yer?’ A less hearty withdrawal from the waiter. Fiona said: ‘You have such magnetism.’

‘That’s me all right.’ Then he clicked his fingers, said: ‘Yo, Placedo!’ And ordered thus: starters, prawn cocktails; main, marinated Tweed salmon with cucumber salad and a pepper steak, roast and jacket potatoes; dessert, pecan sponge pie with marmalade ice-cream; wine, three bottles of Chardonnay.

The waiter looked astonished and Brant said: ‘Hey wake up, Guiseppe, it won’t come on its own.’

Fiona didn’t know what to say said: ‘I dunno what to say.’

‘Yer man, light on his feet I’d say.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘An arse bandit, one of them pillow biters.’

‘Oh God.’

The food began to arrive, and the first bottle of wine. Brant poured freely, raised his glass, said: ‘A toast.’

‘Good heavens.’

‘That too.’

She was glad of the alcohol and drank full, asked: ‘Do you hate my husband so much?’

‘What?’

‘You must do. I mean, all this.’

‘He’s a good copper and straight. This isn’t to do with him.’

‘Why, then? Surely it’s not just a fuck.’

He winced at her obscenity, put his glass down slowly, then said: ‘It’s about class. I never had none. You have it. I thought it might rub off.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

H
E SPOONED THE PRAWN
cocktail as if it contained secrets, then looked her straight in the eye, began: ‘I think I was born angry and there was plenty to be pissed about. We had nowt. Then I became a copper and guess what?’ She hadn’t a clue but he wasn’t expecting an answer, continued: ‘I mellowed ’cos I got respect at last. It felt like I was somebody. Me and Mike Johnson. He was me best mate, Mickey, bought the act even more than I did. Believed yer public could give a toss about us. One night he went to sort out a domestic, usual shit, old man beating the bejaysus out of his missus. Mickey got him up against the wall, we were putting the cuffs on him, when the wife laid him out with a rolling pin.’ Brant laughed out loud, heads turned, he repeated: ‘A bloody rolling pin, like a bad joke.’

‘Was he hurt?’

‘He was after they castrated him.’

Fiona dropped her spoon, said: ‘Oh, good grief.’

‘Good don’t come into it. See, you gotta let ’em see you’re the most brutal fuckin’ thing they’ve ever seen. They come quiet then.’ Brant was deep in memory, even his wine was neglected.

‘My missus. I loved her but I couldn’t let ‘er know. Couldn’t go soft, know what I mean? Else I’d end up singing soprano like old Mickey.’

Whatever Fiona might have said, could have said, was averted. Brant’s bleeper went off, he said: ‘Fuck,’ and went to use the phone. A few moments later, he was back. ‘There’s heat going on in Brixton, I gotta go.’

‘Oh.’

He rummaged in his pockets, dumped a pile of notes on the table, said: ‘I’ve called a cab for you, you stay, finish the grub,’ and then he was gone. Fiona wanted to weep. For whom or why, she wasn’t sure, but a sadness of infinity had shrouded her heart.

As Brant approached the car, his mind was in a swirl of pain through memory. He’d let his guard down, and now he struggled to regain the level of aggression that was habitual. As a mantra, he mouthed Jack Nicholson’s line from
A Few Good Men:
‘The truth, you can’t handle the truth – I eat breakfast every day, four hundred yards from Cubans who want to kill me.’ For a moment he was Jack Nicholson, shoving it loud into the face of Tom Cruise.

It worked. The area of vulnerability began to freeze over, and the smile, slick in its satanic knowledge, began to form. He said: ‘I’m cookin’ now, mister.’ And he was. As the Volvo lurched towards south-east London, Nicholson’s lines fired on: ‘You come down here in your faggoty white uniforms, flash a badge and expect me to salute.’

A
S ROBERTS WAS RESIGNING
himself to a haul to Pentonville, the phone rung again. He considered ignoring it, but finally said: ‘Damn and blast,’ and picked it up. ‘Yes?’

‘Is that the police?’

‘Yes.’(very testy)

‘This is the nursing sister at St Thomas’.’

‘And?’

‘Well, I don’t know if I’m being fanciful, but we have a man here who... I don’t know how to say this.’

Roberts exhaled loudly and said: ‘You have the cricket murderer, am I right?’ He could hear her amazement and it was a moment before she could say: ‘Yes. Yes, at least it might be.’

Roberts couldn’t contain his sarcasm, said: ‘Confessed, did he?’

‘Not exactly, no. A man was brought in after being hit by a bus, and in his sleep, he was shouting things that were peculiar.’

Roberts felt he had been hit by a bus himself, said wearily: ‘I’ll get someone over there toot sweet.’

‘Toot what?’

‘Soon, sister, OK?’

‘All right, I’ll expect you.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

And he rung off. He rooted in his pocket, took out a coin, said: ‘Heads the ’Ville, tails the other monkey.’

Flipped it high.

It was heads.

Officers had blocked off Electric Avenue. Brant could see armed officers lining up along the roofs. Falls came running, said: ‘You got my call?’

‘I owe you, babe. Is this what I think it is?’

‘Someone reported a barrage of shots and a local PC went to investigate. He narrowly escaped having his head shot off.’ Brant approached the officer in charge, said: ‘I think I know who’s inside. What’s the status?’

‘A bloody shambles. We know it’s a dope pad, and four white men were seen going in. Then the shooting started. Nobody’s come out. We have a negotiator on the way and we are trying to set up a phone link.’

Brant turned and said to Falls: ‘Watch this.’

Before anyone could react, he walked across the street and into the building. The scene-of-crime guy exclaimed: ‘What the hell?’

Brant made no effort to sneak up the stairs, but walked loudly, turned into a dimly lit corridor. The smell of cordite was thick, and something else, the smell of blood.

Kev was slouched against a wall, his legs spread out. He held a gun in each hand, not aimed but lying loosely on his chest. He was covered in blood.

Brant said: ‘Shop!’

A lazy smile from Kev, then: ‘You should’ve seen it, mate. We got in and told the fucks not to move. You know what they did?’

‘They moved?’

‘Started bleedin’ shouting. At me brother, he got it in the neck. And Doug, well, he got it everywhere. I dunno about Fenton, I kinda lost him in the excitement.’

‘Are you hurt bad?’

‘I dunno, I don’t feel nuffin’... bit tired I suppose.’

‘You are the ‘E’ mob, right?’

‘Yeah, that’s us.’

‘Tell you son, you done good, had us going a bit.’

‘We did, didn’t we?’

Brant edged closer, said: ‘Thing is, whatcha gonna do now?’

‘I dunno, mate.’

A little nearer. ‘If you give it up boyo, you’ll be famous. Lots of press, movie rights, mini-series, books. Jeez, you’ll be on T-shirts.’

Very close now.

Kev began to move the gun in his right hand, and Brant smashed his foot into Kev’s face. Then bounced his head against the wall a few times, pulled the guns away, said: ‘That’s all she wrote.’

He straightened up and slowly approached the flat, took a peek inside, muttered: ‘Jesus!’

Moved in and stepped carefully over bodies. Saw a heavy wedge of banded cash and said: ‘I’ll be ’aving that.’

He pushed open the window, let himself be clearly seen, and shouted: ‘All clear!’

After the clean-up process had begun, Brant was sitting in a police van, sipping tea from a styrofoam beaker. Falls walked over, said: ‘Hear the buzz?’

‘What? No, is it sirens?’

‘No, sarge, it’s a White Arrest.’

Brant said: ‘I’ve been accused of all sorts of stuff. Some of it stuck, some of it’s even true and none I’ll admit to. But, hand on my heart, I’ve never been a racist. So, I can honestly say, you’re the first nigger I ever liked.’

Falls didn’t know whether to assault him or plain ignore him. Instead: ‘Well, Sergeant, perhaps you’re not as black as you’re painted.’ It was the closest they’d come to camaraderie.

Roberts emerged from Pentonville spitting anger. The suspect was a complete wash out. So loaded on Thorazine he confessed to being Lord Lucan.

It took all of Roberts’ patience not to wallop him. Worse, he had had to brown-nose the Governor, who said: ‘Can’t be too careful, eh?’

‘Exactly.’

As he got in his car, he thought he’d have time to swing by St Thomas’, then said: ‘Fuck that for a game of soldiers.’

•        •        •

Fiona answered the phone, wondered if it was Brant, said: ‘Yes?’

‘Fiona, this is Penny.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Oh Fiona, I’m so sorry, but I had no choice.’

‘That’s not quite right, you chose, but you chose to save yourself.’

‘Can you ever forgive me?’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’

‘What can I do to make up for it? Anything. I’ll do anything.’

‘Would you?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Then go fuck yourself, you’ve done it to everybody else.’

A
T ST THOMAS’ HOSPITAL,
the doctor was releasing his patient. ‘Now Mr Shannon, will you take it easy?’

‘Is sport OK?’

‘Purely as a spectator, is that clear?’

‘Crystal,’ and the Umpire smiled.

The furore of the Brixton shoot-out was ebbing. Commendations, awards, lavish praise, expected promotion: all followed Brant’s way. The George Medal was being mentioned.

Brant was coming home after yet another evening of liquid congratulation. Outside his building, he let back his head and muttered: ‘Ain’t life grand?’

A woman approached and asked: ‘Change for tea, mistah?’

Too late he registered the band-aid, and a knife went deep into his lower back.

As he fell to his knees, he thought: ‘Ahh... bollocks.’

Roberts checked again in the full-length mirror. He was dressed in a tight black shirt, homburg on his head, and dark shades. Oh yeah, and white socks, meeting the too-short pants. Brant had finally talked him into the idea for the fancy dress at the Met dance. When Fiona saw him, she gasped: ‘What on earth?’