The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead (3 page)

‘This is DI Roberts. Yeah, I’m home and a guy tried to mug me on my own doorstep. What? What is this? Did I apprehend him? Get me DS Brant and get a car over here to pick up this guy. He’s a huge white fella in a dirty green tracksuit. Let Brant deal with him. My address? You better be bloody joking, son.’ And he slammed the phone down.

As an earthquake of music began to throb from the roof, he muttered: ‘Right.’

Racing up the stairs, two at a time, like a demented thing: ‘Sarah! Sarah! What is that awful racket?’

‘It’s
Encore Une Fois,
Dad.’

‘Whatever it is, turn it down. Now!’

Sarah lay on her bed. Wondered, could she risk a toke? Better not, leastways till Mum got home.

B
RANT LEANT OVER THE
suspect, asked: ‘Have you ever had a puck in the throat?’ The suspect, a young white male, didn’t know the answer, but he knew the very question boded ill.

Brant put his hand to his forehead said: ‘Oh gosh, how unthinking of me. You probably don’t know what a puck is. It’s my Irish background, those words just hop in any old place. Let me enlighten you.’

The police constable standing by the door of the interview room shifted nervously. Brant knew and ignored him, said: ‘A puck is –’ and lashed out with his closed fist to the man’s Adam’s apple. He went over backwards in his chair, clutching his throat. No sound other than the chair hitting.

Brant said: ‘That’s what it is. A demonstration is worth a hundred words, so my old mum always said – bless her.’

The man writhed on the floor as he fought to catch his breath. The constable made a move forward, said, ‘Really, sir, I –’

‘Shut the fuck up.’ Brant righted the chair, said: ‘Take your time son, no hurry, no hurry at all. A few more pucks you’ll forget about time completely. But time out, let’s have a nice cup o’ tea, eh? Whatcha say to a brewski me oul’ china?’ Brant sat in the chair, took out a crumpled cigarette and lit it, said in a strangled voice: ‘Oh Jesus, these boys catch you in the throat – know what I mean?’ He took another lethal pull then asked: ‘Do you want to tell me why you raped the girl before the tea, or wait till after?’ Before, the man said.

Brant was like a pit-bull. You saw him and the word ‘pugnacious’ leapt to mind. It fitted. His hair was in galloping recession and what remained was cut to the skull. Dark eyes over a nose that had been broken at least twice. A full, sensual mouth that hinted at gentility if not gentleness. Neither applied. He was 5’ 8” and powerfully built. Not from the gym but rather from a smouldering rage. Over a drink he’d admit: ‘I was born angry and got worse.’

He’d achieved the rank of detective sergeant through sheer bloody-mindedness. It seemed unlikely he’d progress in the Metropolitan Police. It was anxious to shed its bully-boy image.

Special Branch had wooed him but he’d told them in a memorable memo to ‘Get fucked’. It made the Branch love him all the more. He was their kind of rough.

Outside the interview room the constable asked: ‘If I might have a word, sir.’

‘Make it snappy, boyo.’

‘I feel I must protest.’

Brant shot his hand out, grabbing the man’s testicles, growled: ‘Feel that! Get yourself a set of brass ones boyo, or you’ll be patrolling the Peckham Estates.’

Falls approached, said: ‘Ah. the hands-on approach.’

‘Whatcha want, Falls?’

‘Mr Roberts wants you.’

He released the constable, said: ‘Don’t ever interrupt my interrogation again. Got that, laddie?’

The C A club had no connection to the clothing shop and they certainly didn’t advertise. It stood for Certain Age, as in ‘women of a’. The women were of the age where they were certain what they wanted. And what they wanted was sex. No frills.

No hassle.

No complications.

Roberts’ wife was forty-six. According to the new Hollywood chick-flicks, a woman of forty-six had more hope of being killed by a psychopath than finding a new partner.

Her friend Penelope had shared this gem with her and was now saying: ‘Fiona, don’t you ever just want to get laid by a hunk and no complications?’

Fiona poured the coffee, laughed nervously. Emboldened, Penny urged: ‘Don’t you want to know if black guys are bigger?’

‘Good Lord, Penny!’

‘Course you do, especially when the only prick in your life is a real prick.’

‘He’s not so bad.’

‘He’s a pompous bastard. C’mon, it’s your birthday, let me treat you to the CA. You’ll get laid like you always wanted and it won’t even cost you money. It’s my treat.’

Fiona had already decided but wanted to be coaxed, even lured, and asked: ‘Is it safe?’

‘Safe? You want safe, buy a vibrator. C’mon, live it up girl – men do it all the time, we’re only catching up.’

Fiona hesitated, then asked: ‘And the men, are they young?’

‘None over twenty and pecs to die for.’

‘OK then – should I bring anything?’

‘Your imagination. Let’s party!’

Brant didn’t knock, just strode into Roberts’ office.

‘You don’t knock?’

‘Gee, Guv, I was so keen to answer your summons, I clean forgot.’

‘Keen!’

‘Aye, keen as mustard, Guv.’

‘Don’t call me Guv, this isn’t
The Sweeney.’

‘And you’re no Reagan, eh? Here, I’ve another McBain for you.’

He tossed a dog-eared book on to the desk. It looked like it had been chewed, laundered and beaten. Roberts didn’t touch it, said: ‘You found this in the toilet, that’s it?’

‘It’s his best yet. No one does the Police Procedural like Ed.’

Roberts leaned over to see the title. A food stain had obliterated that. At least he hoped it was food. He said: ‘You should support the home side, read Bill James, get the humorous take on policing.’

‘For humour, sir, I have you – my humour cup overflowed!’

The relationship twixt R and B always seemed a beat away from beating. You felt like they’d like nothing better than to get down and kick the living shit out of each other. Which had happened. The tension between them was the chemistry that glued. Co-dependency was another word for it.

The phone rang, postponing further needling.

Roberts snapped it and Brant heard: ‘What, a lamppost? Where? When? Jesus! Don’t friggin touch him. No! Don’t cut him down. Keep the press away. Oh shit. We’re on our way’ And he put the phone down.

Brant smiled, asked: ‘Trouble, Guv?’

‘A lynching. In Brixton.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘Do I look like I’m bloody kidding? And they left a note.’

‘What? Like “Back at two”?’

‘How the hell do I know? Let’s go.’

‘Right, Guv.’

‘What did I tell you Brant, eh? Did I tell you not to bloody call me that?’

Brant said: ‘Don’t forget McBain, we’ll need all the help we can get.’

Roberts picked it up and, with a fine overhead lob, landed it in the dustbin and said: ‘Bingo.’

B
Y THE TIME BRANT
and Roberts arrived in Brixton a crowd had already gathered. The yellow police lines were being ignored. Roberts called to a uniformed sergeant, said: ‘Get those people back behind the lines.’

‘They won’t move, sir.’

‘Jesus, are you deaf? Make ’em.’

The medical examiner had arrived and was gazing up at the dangling corpse with a look of near admiration.

Roberts asked: ‘Whatcha think, doc?’

‘Drowning, I’d say.’

Brant laughed out loud and got a dig from Roberts.

The doctor said: ‘Unless you’ve got a ladder handy, I suggest you cut him down.’

Roberts gave a grim smile, turned to Brant, said: ‘Your department, I think.’

Brant grunted and summoned two constables. With complete awkwardness and much noise, they lifted him level with the corpse. A loud ‘boo’ came from the crowd, plus calls of:

‘Watch your wallet, mate.’

‘Give ’im a kiss, darling.’

‘What’s your game then?’

When Brant finally got the noose free, the corpse sagged and took him down in a heap atop the constables. More roars from the crowd and a string of obscenities from Brant.

Roberts said: ‘I think you’ve got him, men.’

As Brant struggled to his feet, Roberts asked: ‘Any comments?’

‘Yeah, the fucker forgot to brush his teeth and I can guarantee he didn’t floss.’

The cricket captain was tending his garden when Pandy came by. A local character, he was so called because of the amount of times he’d ridden in a police car. His shout had been: ‘It’s the police, gis a spin in de pandy.’ They did.

Booze hadn’t as much turned his brain to mush as let it slowly erode. Norman had always been good to him, with cash, clothes, patience.

When Pandy told the drinking school he knew the famous captain, they’d given him a good kicking. Years of Jack, meths, surgical spirit had bloated his face into a ruin that would have startled Richard Harris.

He said: ‘Mornin’, Cap!’

‘Morning, Pandy. Need anything?’

‘I’ve an urge for the surge, a few bob for a can if you could?’ Once, Norman had seen him produce a startling white handkerchief for a crying woman. It was the gentleness, the almost shyness of how he’d offered it. Norman slipped the money over and Pandy, his eyes in a nine-yard stare, said:

‘I wasn’t always like this, Cap.’

‘I know, I know that.’

‘Went to AA once, real nice crowd, but the Jack had me then, they said I had to get a sponsor.’

‘A what?’

‘Sponsor, like a friend, you know, who’d look out for you.’

‘And did you get one?’

Pandy gave a huge laugh, said in a cultured voice: ‘Whatcha fink, take a wild bloody guess.’

Norman, fearful of further revelations, said: ‘I better get on.’

‘Cap?’

‘Yes?’

‘Will... will youse be me sponsor?’

‘Ahm...

‘Won’t be a pest, Cap, it’ll be like before but just so I’d have one. I’d like to be able to say it, just once.’

‘Sure, I’d be privileged.’

‘Shake.’

And he held out a hand ingrained with dirt beyond redemption. Norman didn’t hesitate, he took it.

When Pandy had gone, Norman didn’t rush to the kitchen in search of carbolic soap. He continued to work in the garden, his heart a mix of wonder, pain and compassion.

He’d be dead for weeks before his sponsor learnt the news.

K
EVIN, WITHOUT KNOWING IT
, used an Ed McBain title. As he greeted the ‘E’ crew with ‘Hail, hail, the gang’s all here.’

He was tripping out, had sampled some crack cocaine and gone into orbit, shouting: ‘I can see fucking Indians. And they’re all bus conductors.’

He trailed off in a line of giggles. When the crew had taken their first victim, they had also ‘confiscated’: a) a mountain of dope; b) weapons; c) heavy cash.

Kevin, sampling all these like a vulture on assignment, roared: ‘I love LA!’

Albert, worried, had asked: ‘Is it dangerous?’ Meaning the drugs, and got a nasty clip round the earhole.

‘Dope is risky for those who’re fucked up to start. See me, it’s recreational, like, that’s why they call them that.’

‘Call them what?’

He dealt Albert another clip and answered: ‘Recreational drugs, you moron. What is it, you gone deaf? Listen to that monkey’s shit. Wake up fella, it’s the nineties ending.’

He set up another line of the white.

•        •        •

Patrick Hamilton wrote: ‘Those whom God deserted are given a room and a gas fire in Earls Court.’

If homelessness is the final rung of the downward spiral, then a bedsit may be the rehearsal for desperation. In a bedsit in Balham, a man carefully pinned a large poster of the England cricket team to his wall. He stood back and surveyed it, said:

‘To you who are about to die – here is my salute.’

And he swallowed deep, then spat at the poster. As the saliva dribbled down the team, he half turned, then in one motion launched a knife with ferocity. It clattered against the wall, didn’t hold, fell into the line. He took a wild kick at it, screaming:

‘You useless piece of shit.’

The knife had come from
Man of War
magazine. Monthly, it catered for would-be mercenaries, Tories and psychos. Their mail-order section featured all the weapons necessary for a minor bloodbath. The ‘throwing knife’ was guaranteed to hit and pierce with ‘deadly accuracy’. The man dropped to the floor and began his morning regime of harsh exercises, shouted:

‘Gimme one hundred, mister.’

As he pumped, the letters on his right arm, burned tattoo-blue against the skin: SHANNON. Not his real name, but the character from Frederick Forsyth’s
Dogs of War.
Unlike the fictional character, he didn’t smoke, drink, drug. The demons in his mind provided all the stimulation he would ever need. Words hammered through his head as he pounded the floor:

Gimmie a little country or gimmie rock ’n’ roll but launch me to Armageddon I will smote the heathers upon the playing fields of Eton and low I will lay their false Gods of sporting legend I will I will I am I am the fucking wrath of the nineties. The new age of devastation.

B
RANT AND ROBERTS WERE
sitting in the canteen. Not saying a whole lot. Both had newspapers, both tabloids. None of the
Guardian
liberal pose in here. In his office, Roberts kept the
Telegraph
on top, lest the brass look in.

They were comfortable, at odd times sometimes were. Grunts of approval, decision, amazement. Of course the obligatory male cry had to be uttered periodically to emphasise there were no pooftahs here:

‘Fwor, look at the knockers on ’er.’

‘See this wanker? He ate the vicar’s dog.’

Emboldened by the reassuring bonding of the sports page, Brant put his page down, had a look around, then took out his cigs, asked: ‘Mind if I do, Guv?’

Roberts raised his eyebrows, said: ‘And what? You’ll refrain if I do mind?’