Vixen (Inspector Brant) (7 page)

‘Chief Inspector?’

‘Yes, is that you, Porter? Has there been some action?’

‘Ahm, no sir, all’s quiet. I was just checking in; er, are you at a party, sir?’

Brief flurry of talk, then Roberts bellowed:

‘A party, when there’s a major case in progress, are you out of your mind? Who’s got time to play?’

‘Sorry, sir, it just sounded busy where you are.’

‘’Course it’s busy, this is London, a busy town.’

And he rang off.

Porter muttered:

‘Drunk as a skunk.’

Porter Nash moved back to the watching position and asked the constable:

‘Anything?’

‘Not a button. You’d think there be more action in a train station.’

‘It’s Friday night, people have already gone home.’

The guy looked at Porter Nash, considered, then went for it:

‘That’s why they pay you the big bucks.’

Then to Porter’s amazement, the guy took out his cigarettes. Porter said:

‘Smoking? Tell me you’re kidding.’

He put them away and resolved to tell the guys that Porter was as tight-assed as they’d suspected.

When Roberts had followed Brant into the house at the Oval, he’d been near-deafened from the volume of the music. Worse, it sounded like that hip-hop his daughter listened to. The front room was jammed and Roberts realised it was all women. He asked Brant:

‘Aren’t there any men?’

‘I hope to fuck not.’

Someone pushed a drink into his hand and Brant, already with one, clinked glasses, said:

‘Bottoms up.’

Roberts took a large swig, felt the liquid near burn his throat, said to Brant:

‘Christ, what the hell is that?’

Brant had already finished his, was looking for a refill, peered into the glass, seemed to give it serious consideration, said:

‘I’d guess tequila, what? You wanted the whole deal? Salt and lime?’

Roberts put the glass aside, said:

‘No, a beer would have been nice.’

Brant was gone and a woman approached, said:

‘Are you Brant’s boss?’

Before he could reply, she laughed, said:

‘Dumb question, right? As if anybody was his boss.’

Roberts couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She was wearing one of those flimsy sheath dresses that barely covered anything. Large breasts were almost touching him, she had on killer heels and the whole outfit screamed SEX! She gave him a radiant smile, asked:

‘You want to go in the bedroom?’

Brant reappeared, a barrel over his shoulder. He carefully put it down and said:

‘Now, you’ve got beer. Stell, a glass for over here.’

Stell, who was wearing even less clothes than the one Roberts was leering at, brought a glass, bent down, got the barrel going and poured a half-pint with expertise. She
handed it to Roberts and gave him what could only be called a come-on smile. Roberts grabbed Brant’s arm, pulled him over to a corner, said:

‘What the hell is going on? Some of these women look like hookers.’

Brant’s eyes were already glazed and he seemed confused by the question, said:

‘What do you mean?’

Roberts drained his glass, thought it was hot as hell in there, said:

‘I’m telling you, a woman just came on to me, like a hooker would.’

Brant was staring at him and Roberts said:

‘Did you hear me, I think there’s a hooker here.’

Now Brant laughed out loud, said:

‘They’re all hookers, it’s a hookers’ party.’

Roberts, who’d been in all sorts of bizarre situations with Brant, couldn’t believe it, said:

‘You’re fucking winding me up.’

Brant was unsure what Roberts’ dilemma was, so tried:

‘Didn’t I say you’d get laid?’

‘Yeah, but…’

‘Well, come on, guv, you don’t think normal women are going to give it up to a battered pair like us?’

Roberts didn’t know whether to act offended or outraged. A woman came, took his glass and refilled it; he didn’t object, nodded in a dazed way and Brant clapped his shoulder, said:

‘That’s the spirit.’

Roberts tried to get his head round the deal. He couldn’t. Brant was having himself a hell of a time.

Roberts asked:

‘This may seem a stupid question but why are we at a party thrown by hookers?’

Brant did seem to think it was a stupid question and took another huge drink then focused, said:

‘They owe me and wanted to show their appreciation, and trust me, guv, there is no better appreciation than that of a grateful hooker.’

Roberts put down his glass, tried to look like he was the boss, said:

‘I’ll have to go, we have a major case going down and I’m… what? Hanging out with hookers.’

Brant forced another drink into Roberts’ hand, nodded, said:

‘Tell you what, we give it ten minutes and then we’re history. What can happen in ten minutes, am I right?’

Reluctantly, Roberts agreed. Ten minutes was nothing and it wasn’t as if he was pissed or anything, though he did feel a slight buzz. Brant signalled to one of the women and indicated Roberts. She smiled, began to move in their direction. The music had increased in volume and a neighbour banged at the door to complain, said he was going to call the police. He was not happy to learn they were already present before the door was slammed in his face.

Someone passed a spliff to Brant and he muttered that he’d have to report drugs on the premises before he inhaled
enough weed to put a smile on even Edwina Currie’s face.

He patted Roberts on the shoulder, said:

‘Ten and counting, right boss?’

Falls was having a night in, she and Andrews having spent a day doing traffic and nothing, nothing on earth was as tedious as that. It also meant working with traffic wardens, and nobody moaned like those fuckers. Not even the public could rise to the level of whining achieved by wardens.

Andrews had screamed at one:

‘Hey, we’re trying to help you out here, we’re not the goddamn enemy.’

Falls was beginning to like this girl and tried hard not to. You got close to a copper, you got hurt – it was set in stone. But this girl, she had true grit and a low level of tolerance, qualities that Falls loved. The warden tried for sympathy:

‘You don’t know what it’s like to have to do this stuff.’

Andrews looked to Falls who gave her the okay, so she said:

‘And guess what? We don’t want to know. Get a real job, try doing meals on wheels or go on the dole, but primarily, stop bitching.’

Like that.

Days such as those, you wanted to get home, get wasted and shut out the world. Falls had already started. First she had a shower, then put on an old cotton dressing gown with a picture of Garfield on the front. He had a question
mark over his head. Falls often wondered what the question was; it never once occurred to her to wonder about the answer.

A bottle of vodka was chilling in the fridge and that’s what she wanted herself, to chill. She was drinking from a bottle of Bud and that couldn’t seriously be considered drinking, could it? She liked the habit of drinking from the neck, it was laid-back and showed you were with the game. So, okay, she’d already had three but
hell!
She was home, and who was counting, anyway?

The empties sat on her coffee table, but on coasters. That proved she wasn’t some kind of slob, not letting things go. She had a bag of weed in her bedside cabinet so she could seriously mellow out later. Her coke days were in the past, had to be.

She turned on the telly and swore: the ending credits were rolling on
EastEnders.
She channel-surfed until she hit MTV and there was Christina Aguilera strutting her stuff, with a song titled ‘Dirty’. Falls had to look twice to make sure that, yes, she was wearing what seemed to be cowboy chaps or whatever the hell they called those leather things that went on over jeans. Lest you be in any doubt as to what the song was, the word ‘Dirty’ was emblazoned on Christina’s knickers. Falls got into the beat of it and had to admit that the energy made you want to party.

No way was it the Bud doing the business. You’d need another ten before you could start to like Aguilera on any serious sort of level. Then a black guy called Redman
joined Christina and he did that whole bad boy, gangsta rap gig. In truth it was a mess but got your motor churning.

Then Coldplay were up with ‘Scientist’: earnest white boys doing the Dire Straits/Travis rock-cred act. She liked this too and knew about this group as Gwyneth Paltrow was said to be pursuing an intense romance with the lead singer. Falls took a long look at the guy. He was unshaven, very pale and never smiled. Yeah, Gwynnie would love that gig.

The name of the group worked for Falls, she felt it had that nice ring of Brixton. If you had to describe how to survive the streets, you could do worse than say… ‘Coldplay’… and if that didn’t make sense, then you belonged in Hampstead.

She stretched out on the sofa, felt the day ease on down and thought it was nice to just fold in front of the TV and, like, hang. The niggling line ‘Get a life’ tried to intrude but she moved it on along. The bottle of vodka should be nicely chilled and she’d be making a run at it real soon.

The doorbell rang and it startled her. Since the days with her last man, Nelson, the bell put the fear in her, making her think that he’d come to read the riot act and drag her sorry ass off to rehab.

Dark days indeed.

‘Course, she reasoned, she could just ignore it but no, here it was again, and whoever it was, they were leaning on the buzzer, determined to get an answer. Sighing deeply, she got up, went to answer it.

She threw the door open.

At first she didn’t recognise the person. A blonde woman in a black bomber jacket, carrying two Tesco bags. She gave a huge smile, said:

‘Hi, girlfriend!’

Angie, the woman who’d saved her purse.

Falls knew there was something wrong with this. Did she give out her address? As a rule, she never did. Cops only gave that to other cops and even then, to a very select few. But she’d been drinking vodka and her memory at such times was far from reliable.

Angie said:

‘So, do I get to come in or do I just drop these goodies here and run?’

‘Shit, sorry… course, come in.’

As she breezed past Falls, the smell of her perfume was downright seductive. Falls would have to ask her the brand.

Angie plonked the bags on the coffee table and surveyed the room, the empty bottles were like a neon sign.

She said:

‘Cosy.’

Falls felt mortified. If it had been a man it would have been bad enough but you never wanted another woman to see you might be a slob. Especially not a classy woman like Angie.

Falls said:

‘I just got home, never quite got round to tidying.’

Angie went to the bags and pulled out a bottle of vodka,
bags of crisps, peanuts, wine, carton of cigs and a mess of napkins, said:

‘I didn’t know what to get so I got everything.’

Falls was conscious of her ratty dressing gown and said:

‘Just let me change.’

Angie put up her hand, said:

‘No way, girl, you look comfortable and unless you have some guys stashed, let’s have us a girlie night.’

She began to open the vodka, said:

‘Yo, Elizabeth, get some glasses. We don’t want to drink from the bottle – least not yet, am I right?’

Falls went to the kitchen, rinsed out some glasses, tried to get with the game. The Bud had made her fuzzy and she felt she’d better slow down and let Angie catch up.

Back to the living room and Angie was on the couch, the bottle opened. She was wearing a very short skirt and Falls marvelled at her shapely legs.

Angie caught the look, asked:

‘You think my legs are too heavy.’

‘No, you, ahm… you’re in great shape.’

She patted the couch, said:

‘Come on girl, join me.’

Falls thought she was probably imagining it but was there a tone of flirting in there? She sat back and Angie poured two lethal measures, opened a pack of peanuts, said:

‘I’m, like, starved. Didn’t get to eat today.’

She raised hers, clinked glasses and knocked it back. Falls took a small sip, resolved to take it real slow and asked:

‘So, how come you’re… in the neighbourhood?’

Angie, thinking of the one-bar fire, the bath and Jimmy, smiled, said:

‘I had me a day, and I remembered we had us such a nice evening last time, I thought it would be fun to get together. Truth is, I was feeling electric.’

Falls realised she’d finished her drink and, when Angie poured two more, she didn’t fight it. Angie went into a long story about the club she was working at and the shit she had to tolerate. Falls was laughing, having herself a time and thinking: I can handle this, what was I worried about?

Then Angie was talking about
Tipping The Velvet
and Falls tried to concentrate and asked:

‘What?’

Angie nearly slipped it, almost mentioned that Jimmy had taped it but caught herself and said:

‘Couple of babes going at it.’

‘You mean, like women… together?’

Angie laughed, took a long look at Falls, then:

‘For a policewoman, you’re very… sheltered.’

Falls had no idea where this was going, so poured more vodka, said:

‘I don’t get to watch a whole lot of television.’

Angie seemed highly amused and licked her bottom lip, asked:

‘Haven’t you ever wondered what it’s like, you know, with a woman?’

Then before she could answer, Angie went on:

‘Got any music? I’d die if I couldn’t have that.’

Falls went to the cabinet, selected some techno, figuring it was neutral and didn’t convey any message. Angie was up, moving to the beat and then, before Falls knew what was happening, she’d put her hand on Falls’ cheek, kissed her firmly.

Uncle Nate was an asshole, but he taught me one
thing; if you want something, ain’t nobody going to
get it for you unless you get it yourself. And once
you got it, make goddamn sure you held onto it.
Gary Phillips,
The Jook

WHEN FALLS CAME to in the morning, she had the hangover from hell. Opening her eyes, she tried to recall the events of the evening.