Vixen (Inspector Brant) (12 page)

Caz had the sex and danger to a fine craft. Got the woman to the bed, slipped out the stiletto and snapped the bra-strap with the steel, then said:

‘You want me to hit another button?’

Did they ever – and often.

Caz could move with ease in almost any company, which made him an ideal snitch; it would have also helped in an Inland Revenue career. Brant found him in a Mexican place, late in the afternoon, asked:

‘You know me?’

Caz tried to raise his famous smile, failed, said:

‘Senor Brant, of course. You are legend, is not so, amigo?’

Brant signalled to the waitress who was dressed in flamenco gear, with the name tag, ‘Rosalita’. She sashayed over, lisped:

‘Si, senor?’

She was from Peckham.

Brant looked at Caz, asked:

‘What’s good?’

‘San Miguel and the enchilada is
muy bueno.’

Brant sighed, ordered:

‘Two of them Miguels and before Tuesday.’

Brant reached over to Caz’s cigs, read the packet – Ducados – took one, fired it up, coughed, said:

‘Jeez, what a piece of shit.’

He didn’t stub it out, said:

‘First off, I’m not your amigo, got it? You ever call me that, I’ll break your nose. Second, you are now working for me and I need information. Everything on Ray Cross and the blonde chick he ran with, I need this like yesterday.’

Before Caz could reply, Brant held up his hand, said:

‘This is not negotiable. I don’t want to hear dick about how hazardous it might be, ‘cos I’m the most dangerous item that can fall on you. Now, are we clear, amigo?’

They were.

‘It’s ungovernable… Psychosis is everywhere, in
your armpit, under your shoe. You can smell it in
the sweat in this room… we’re all baby killers,
repressed or not… how do you measure a man’s
rage? Either we behave like robots, or we kill. Why
do you expect your police force to be any less crazy
than you?
Jerome Charyn,
The Issac Quartet.

CAZ SURPRISED EVERYONE, especially himself, by coming up with the goods so quickly. He met with Brant at the Cricketers, said:

‘I got a result.’

Caz was wearing what could only be described as a garish shirt, something Elvis would have worn for
Elvis in Hawaii.
He was even wearing a large gold medallion on his exposed chest. Brant, yet again in a bespoke suit, asked:

‘Where did you get the shirt?’

‘Like it? I can get you one just like it, or would you prefer a more colourful shade?’

The horrendous thing was, he was serious.

Brant stared at the medallion.

Caz said:

‘It’s Our Lady of Guadeloupe… but I can’t get you one
as my sainted mother, God rest her, gave it to me when I escaped from El Salvador.’

This was far too much data for Brant, who said:

‘El Salvador? I checked on you, boyo, you were brought up in Croydon.’

Caz looked defeated – crestfallen just wouldn’t do justice to how his face appeared – and he tried:

‘Not too many people know that.’

Brant gave him a hard slap on the face, said:

‘Get the drinks in. You behave yourself and you can be from fucking Nigeria if you like. Now hop on up there. A large Teachers for me, and some cheese and onion… go.’

Caz was attempting to focus, whined:

‘But don’t you want to hear my news?’

‘What’s the hurry?’

And Caz got the look. He moved rapidly to the bar. The barman had a pony-tail, a checked waistcoat and an attitude. The attitude, of course, would cost extra. Caz ordered and the guy kept the smirk in place.

So Caz asked:

‘What?’

The guy chuckled. It’s hard to credit that a human being in this era of global terrorism would seriously make such a sound, and worse, think it was
clever.
He said:

‘That’s Brant you’re keeping company with.’

‘And that means what?’

Another chuckle, then:

‘Don’t let the big boys hear about that.’

Caz didn’t do threats well, unless it was from Brant,
which was a whole other country. But some git in a pub? He fingered his stiletto, said:

‘I’ll tell him what you said.’

And got the guy’s full attention. He pleaded:

‘Jesus, don’t do that. Tell you what, how would it be if I gave you these drinks as a treat from me, how would that suit?’

It suited fine. Caz told Brant anyway. Brant was delighted and raised his glass to the guy who busied himself with glass-cleaning and wished he’d kept his frigging mouth shut.

Brant asked:

‘Where is she?’

Caz produced a slip of paper and said:

‘She’s shacked up with a stripper. And Ray… Ray is in Brighton. Both of them have changed their appearance.’

Brant was seriously impressed. He didn’t show it of course but did concede:

‘Nice one.’

AT THE HOSPITAL, the doctor gave Andrews some painkillers after he cleaned up the bite.

He said:

‘You’re lucky, the woman who did this, she doesn’t appear to have any… how shall I say?… condition that might raise cause for concern.’

Falls, trying to suppress the rage that still boiled, said:

‘She has a condition now, all right.’

The doctor looked at her questioningly and she said:

‘Assaulting a police officer, that will get her two years. You might say she’d got a fucked condition.’

The doctor was appalled at the use of language, not to mention the glee and venom of the words, and he said:

‘I’m sure the poor woman needs help.’

Falls wanted to lash him, and she hated how, like Brant,
she was starting to see liberals as a serious pain in the ass. She kept the steel in her tone and asked:

‘Are you married?’

He read it wrong and, flattered, conceded:

‘Ahm, yes, but we’ve been… ‘

Falls cut him off with:

‘And if some bitch took a chunk out of her neck, how much would your heart bleed?’

He wanted to get away and thought he might put a call through to his MP about the type of person wearing a uniform these days. He said:

‘One can’t, of course, predict one’s reaction but one likes to believe one would weigh the factors involved.’

Andrews wanted to get out of there and stood up, but Falls added:

‘Weigh this: when the bull dyke gets her biting ass in Holloway, we’ll see how one might weigh that factor.’

The doctor dismissed her, said to Andrews:

‘I strongly recommend you go home, get some rest. Is there anyone there to take care of you? You’ve had a traumatic time.’

Andrews didn’t answer him and walked away. Falls gave him the long stare and followed.

He said to a nurse:

‘God help us all if they’re the good guys.’

OUTSIDE, FALLS ASKED:

‘Should I call a cab?’

‘I want a drink.’

Who was Falls to argue? But they were still in uniform and fairly bedraggled, so she hailed a black cab and asked him to go to Lonsdale Road. The driver had the ‘Knowledge’ and knew the police den there, dropped them right outside it, said:

‘You guys are getting some bad press but for my money, you’re doing good.’

And waived the fare.

How often does that happen? It was smart public relations but the gesture was meant.

Falls said:

‘If you’re ever in a jam…’

He appreciated the pun. Andrews looked at the nondescript building, asked in a sulky tone:

‘What’s this?’

Falls, invigorated, said:

‘It’s the “sorrows”, as in drown the fuckers. You don’t get to visit it until you’ve proved yourself. So many wash out now, if they last a week it’s surprising but you, you’ve certainly shown you’re here for the long haul.’

Andrews seemed singularly unimpressed but when you’ve recently been bitten, your options move. There were no bouncers on the door –
at a cop joint? Come on!

A single cop sat in an alcove, reading
Loaded
, looked up and muttered:

‘Falls.’

Waved them in.

You’d expect a dive and you wouldn’t be more wrong. The furnishings were sedate, almost feminine, lots of fussy curtains and delicate furniture with a bright paint job. The place was jammed: uniforms, plain clothes, Special Branch, civil servants who were vaguely connected in that they did favours. A long bar running the length of one wall, and two tenders.

As they walked in, conversation stopped and then a quiet applause began. Andrews looked at Falls who said:

‘That’s for you, kid.’

‘What? How can they know?’

Falls led the way to a corner table, acknowledged the praise with a small hand gesture and said:

‘Are you joking? A cop gets hit, they know.’

Immediately a round of drinks came, and raised glasses from various tables.

Andrews asked:

‘What’s in these drinks?’

There were six shot glasses and Falls handed one over, said:

‘Scotch, these guys are no frills.’

For a moment, it seemed like Andrews was going to demur, maybe ask for vodka and slimline tonic, but as she felt the camaraderie, something in her face changed and she knocked back the shot like a good ‘un. A chorus of ‘Way to go, girl’ followed.

She was in.

PC MCDONALD HAD been hovering on the brink for days on end. His parents had come from Edinburgh and left in tears. Brant, Falls, Roberts had all made appearances. Then he came round with a massive headache.

The doctor asked:

‘Are you a religious man?’

McDonald, groggy but improving, stared at him, asked:

‘What?’

‘A bullet creased the very top of your brain, you should be dead… at the very least, a vegetable. I’ve never seen such a drastic turnaround. If you’re not a religious man, you better find some icon to thank because, believe you me, this is a miracle.’

McDonald didn’t feel very grateful or lucky or even
miraculous; what he felt was nauseous, thirsty and a little hungry. He said so.

The doctor gave him a long look and thought: Cops, more stupid than I could have believed. He said:

‘You should make a full recovery but you’re going to have to take a time to rest and recuperate. Head wounds are very traumatic and all sorts of problems can arise so we’ll be monitoring you.’

McDonald sighed and near whined:

‘So where are we on the drink?’

The doctor stomped off and figured the worst ones always survived. He near collided with Superintendent Brown, who said:

‘Hey, watch where you’re going.’

The doctor saw the dog’s dinner of insignia on the Super’s jacket and wanted to say:

‘If you’re the top honcho, no wonder the idiot in the bed is so thick.’

The Super sat on the side of the bed and asked:

‘How are you doing?’

McDonald managed to sit up and say:

‘Bit weak but I’ll be back in jig time.’

The Super snorted, which is exactly how it sounded: the noise coming down his nose full of derision and scepticism. He drew back his shoulders as his wife was always nagging him to do and barked:

‘That’s what you think, laddie!’

McDonald was confused; he thought the Super had come to praise him.

Before he could protest, the Super continued:

‘I still have some juice despite having to eat shit over arresting the wrong suspect so I’ve persuaded the media to treat you as a hero cop. All that good nonsense about tackling an armed and highly dangerous villain – the great unwashed still love the good old British “have a go” shite. You’ll probably get a commendation.’

He paused to let this sink in and McDonald didn’t know whether to say thanks or just shut his mouth. He decided to shut his mouth.

The Super looked round and wasn’t impressed with anything he saw, then:

‘You’ll get the commendation but that’s all you’ll bloody get. I had my eye on you, was even putting you up for the Lodge, but you’re finished, you hear me? You went off on your own bat and nearly caused a huge disaster. I’ll be covering our arse for months to come, thanks to you, and worse, we have a lunatic out there with a ton of our money and a weapon.’

Brown stood up, breathed heavily, added:

‘If you do come back, you’ll be on traffic, and we can only hope you don’t make a complete bollix of that.’

Then he stomped off.

A nurse went over to McDonald, gave the hero her sweetest smile and asked:

‘Now, love, what would you like?’

‘Like? What would I like? I’d like you to fuck off!’

It took two orderlies to hold him down while they gave him a massive sedative.

FALLS WAS SINKING her third shot when Brant strode in. He was wearing a light blue suit, open white shirt and soft leather boots that screamed money. He pulled up a chair and asked:

‘Join you, girls?’

Andrews was delighted and Falls felt her heart sink. For years, she’d struggled not to become like him but the more she did, the more she seemed to blend into him.

The cops at the bar gave him grudging waves; they were afraid not to. A round of drinks soon arrived and he gave his wolf smile. He raised one, pointed the glass at Andrews, said:

‘Here’s to you losing your cherry.’

Andrews picked up hers and smiled, the flirt-filled one that lets you know you’re batting ten. Brant took out his
cigs and didn’t offer, lit up, blew the smoke in Falls’ direction and said:

‘We’ve finally got a break in the case.’

The women in unison went:

‘What?’

He enjoyed the reaction, said:

‘Yeah, we know where the mysterious woman is and have a line on Ray Cross, the cop shooter. I’m picking up Porter Nash and bringing him along to meet the woman.’

Falls picked up another shot. She was chilling out and wondered why she didn’t get to this place more often;, the company of cops, it was the best. The budding chemistry between Andrews and Brant was vaguely worrying but what could she do? She asked:

‘Porter is out?’

‘Yeah, he’s raring to go and he wants Cross so bad, you know how that goes?’

Falls had a moment and knew he was referring to the rumours of her offing the cop killer. She smiled – keep it light, she told herself.