by Ken Bruen
He bit into the remaining cake and Nancy added, ‘You’d slide right into the NYPD.’
‘Think so?’
Nervously, she produced a package. ‘It’s for you.’
‘A present?’
‘Well, to remind you of your trip.’
‘This travel lark is a blast — people keep giving me stuff.’
Without finesse, he tore open the package. Inside was a Macys tag and a hat. He said, ‘It’s a hat.’
‘Like Popeye Doyle.’
‘Who?’
‘In the movie “French Connection”.’
Then she saw him laughing and she blustered, ‘I didn’t know what you’d wear — a fedora, a Trilby, a derby …?’
‘But you knew I’d wear it well.’
For one awful moment she thought he was going to sing.
He stood up, said, ‘I hate to rush you.’
As they drove to Kennedy, she didn’t know whether she would be relieved or sad at his going.
Brant thought: ‘The hat’ll be a nice surprise for Roberts …
A room had been set aside for the transfer of the prisoner. As Brant and Nancy waited, he signed the ton of paperwork. Then he took out his Weights and checked the wall. Yup, right there: SMOKE FREE ZONE.
He lit up. Nancy ignored him.
As he fingered the Zippo, he suddenly acted on impulse, said, ‘Here, it was my Dad’s.’
Nancy looked at the offered lighter, said, ‘Oh, I couldn’t.’
‘OK.’ And he put it back in his pocket.
The door opened and Josie was let through. In chains. A belt round her waist joined manacles from her wrists to her ankles. Naturally, it impeded movement and she had to shuffle pigeon-toed. Four guards with her. Brant said, ‘For fucksake!’
Josie gave a rueful smile, said, ‘I’ll never get through the metal detector.’
As the handover was done, all the chains were removed and then a new long handcuff was placed on her right wrist, the other cuff offered to Brant.
Before he could respond, Nancy said, ‘It’s regulations.’
‘It’s bloody nonsense.’
But he took the cuff. Josie said, ‘Like we’re engaged.’
Nancy said, ‘We accompany you to the aircraft, then it’s all your show.’
They were boarded before the other passengers and right at the rear of the plane. Two rows ahead would be kept empty.
Nancy said, ‘You better not smoke.’
‘Me?’
The guards left and Nancy had a word with the Chief Steward, then she stood before Brant. ‘I guess it’s been fun.’
‘Don’t let me keep you, D’Agostino.’
She turned and was half way down the aisle when he shouted, ‘Yer a good un, Nance.’
Not sure what that meant, she decided it was complimentary, and hugged it thus.
Josie asked, ‘Did yah ride her?’
‘Watch yer lip.’
Brant reached over, unlocked the cuffs. She massaged her wrist. ‘Thanks.’
‘Any messin’, I’ll break yer nose, OK?’
Josie gave him a long look. ‘I could give you a blow job.’
He laughed in spite of himself. What was amazing to him was she was kind of likable. In a twisted, selfish fashion, he felt almost protective. He tried to dissipate that with: ‘You’ll get some reception in prison — you being a police killer.’
She nodded. ‘Least I’ll get a decent cup o’ tea.’
‘You’ll get a hell of a lot more than tea, me girl.’
She looked out the window. ‘I’m afraid.’
‘You have good reason, lass.’
‘No, I mean … of flying.’
Brant nearly laughed again, said
‘Jaysus, you’d be better off if we crashed.’
‘Can I hold yer hand for take-off?’
Brant shook his head and then she left a piece of paper on his knee. He asked, ‘What?’ And uncrumbled it to find a five dollar bill. Soiled, worn, torn, but hanging in there.
She said, ‘I’ll buy the drinks.’
‘How did you hide it?’
She gave a slow smile. ‘Them yanks isn’t all they’re cracked up to be.’
As the plane took off, he saw the sweat on her forehead. He placed his hand on hers and she nodded.
Once airborne, the hostess asked, ‘Like a drink? It has to be a soft one for your … companion.’
‘A Coke for her and two large Bacardis.’
‘Ahm …
Brant stared at her, defying her to question him. She let it go. Josie said nothing.
When the drinks came, he measured them evenly and indicated Josie to take one. She said, ‘I love rum ’n’ coke.’
‘Well drink it then.’
She did.
The in-flight movie commenced and Josie said, ‘I love the pictures.’
Shooting
Collie watched the funeral with a sense of awe. All the taxi drivers of south-east London had turned out for their murdered colleague. Each cab had a black ribbon tied to its antennae and they fluttered in the light breeze.
‘I caused this. They’re here cos of me.’
It was a heady sensation. Collie had figured he needed a dry run with the gun, to see if he had the balls. He did.
Kept it lethal and simple. Hailed a cab at The Oval, blew the guy’s head off at Stockwell. Then walked away. He couldn’t believe the rush. He hadn’t touched the takings — he was a professional, not a bloody thief.
The few days previous, he’d done his Brant research. All that required was hanging in the cop pubs. To say they were loose tongued was to put it mildly — numerous times he heard of Brant travelling home with a woman. Next he rang the station and, in his best TV voice said, ‘This is Chief Inspector Ryan of Serious Crimes at the Yard. We need the assistance of Sergeant Brant.’
Mention of the Yard did all the work. He was told the time and terminal of arrival. Now, on the day, he put on a black suit and dog collar, checked himself in the mirror and said, ‘Reverend …? You looking at me?’
At The Oval, he bought a ticket for Heathrow and The Big Issue to pass the journey. As he settled into his seat, the gun was only slightly uncomfortable in the small of his back.
A woman offered him a piece of chocolate and he said, ‘God bless you my child.’
At the airport, he checked the arrivals board and settled down to wait.
Over Heathrow, the plane was preparing to land. Brant said, ‘We’ve got to cuff up.’
‘I like bin chained to yah.’
‘Jaysus, girl!’
Then she lowered her head. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What?’
‘For yer trouble.’
‘Yeah … well …
In truth, he didn’t know what to say. Being sorry hardly cut it, but … He said, ‘Leastways you’ll get a decent cup o’ tea.’
‘Two sugars?’
‘Sure, why not?’
As Brant and Josie emerged into arrivals, he slung his jacket to hide the cuff. Collie saw them and thought: Holding hands. How sweet.
He moved up to the barrier, Brant vaguely clocked a priest and looked away. The gun was out and Collie put two rounds in Josie’s chest. The impact threw her back, pulling Brant along. Collie was moving fast and away, the gun back in his waistband.
Brant leant over Josie, saw the holes pumped by the dum dums and shouted, ‘Oh God!’
Collie was at the taxi rank and his collar allowed him to jump the queue. That, plus cheek.
‘Central London,’ he said.
His elation and adrenalin was clouded by what he’d seen. A handcuff? How could that be?
Then he realised the driver was talking … incessantly. Collie touched the gun and smiled.
Acts ending — if not concluding
When Bill heard of the airport shooting he shouted, ‘What the bloody blue fuck is the matter with everyone? Can’t anybody do a blasted thing right?’
His minder did
n’t know, said, ‘I dunno.’
‘Course you don’t bloody know, yah thick fuck.’
What Bill knew was the shit was about to hit the fan — and hard.
He headed home and his daughter Chelsea was waiting. She said, ‘I love you, Dad.’
Bill had recently caught a BBC documentary on Down’s syndrome. The children had been titled ‘the gentle prophets’. He wasn’t entirely sure what it meant but he liked it.
Picking up Chelsea, he asked, ‘Want to go on a trip with yer Dad?’
‘Oh yes!’
‘Good girl.’
‘Where, Dad?’
‘Somewhere far and till things cool off.’
‘Can we go tomorrow Dad?’
‘Darlin’, we’re going today.’
Roberts was once again before the Super. A very agitated Super, who asked, ‘What the bloody hell is going on?’
‘Sir?’
‘Don’t “sir” me, Roberts … the fiasco at the airport … Who on earth would shoot the woman?’
‘They say it was a priest.’
The Super displayed a rare moment of wit, said, ‘Lapsed Catholic, was she?’
Roberts gave the polite smile, about one inch wide.
The Super snapped, ‘It’s hardly a joking matter! Could it have been Brant he was after?’
‘It seems to have been a very definite hit, sir.’
‘Where’s Brant now?’
‘Still at Heathrow — Special Branch are de-briefing him.’
The Super stood up, began pacing. Not a good sign. He was muttering, ‘God only knows what the Yanks will make of this.’
A knock at the door and a woman looked in. ‘Ready for your tea, and biccy, sir?’
He exploded, ‘Tea? I don’t want bloody tea, I want results!’
She fled.
The Super leant on the desk. ‘You’ll have to have a word with WPC Fell.’
‘Falls, sir.’
‘What, like the present continuous of the verb ‘to fall’, not the past tense? You’re giving me an English lesson?’
‘No, sir … I …
‘The damn woman has resigned. I mean, her being black … you know … Minority Policing and all that horse-shit … Get her back.’ Before Roberts could reply, the Super was off again, ‘Well don’t hang about, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Roberts had reached the door when the Super said, ‘Send in me tea.’
Brief debriefing
‘We’d like you to go through it one more time, Sergeant.’
Brant lit up a Weight, took a deep drag, exhaled. ‘You’re trying to learn it by heart, that it?’
The two men conducting the interview wore suits. One had a black worsted, the other a tweed Oxford. Black said, patiently, ‘There may be some detail you’ve forgotten.’
‘It’s on tape, yer mate in the Oxfam job had a recorder.’
Oxford said, ‘We’re anxious to let you get home.’
Brant sat back, said, ‘We arrived at Heathrow, I re-cuff us — ’
‘Re-cuff?’
‘Is there an echo?’
‘Let me understand this, Sergeant. The woman was uncuffed during the flight?’
‘You catch on quick, boyo.’
The men exchanged a glance, then: ‘Please continue.’
‘We got off the plane and I covered the cuffs with me jacket …
Another exchanged look.
‘Then we came out and a priest shot her.’
‘What makes you think he was a priest?’
‘Was he was a good shot? What d’ya think, he looked like Bing Crosby?’
Now Oxford allowed his skepticism to show, said, ‘He was hardly a priest.’
‘Are you catholic?’
‘No, but I hardly see …
‘If you were a catholic, you’d not be surprised what priests are capable of.’
Black decided to take control — cut the shit, cut to the chase. ‘You won’t be shedding any tears, will you Sergeant?’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Well, I mean … like someone did you a favour, eh? She tried to murder you once, killed one of your colleagues … how much can you be hurting?’
Brant was up. ‘Enough of this charade, I’m off.’
Oxford moved to block the door and Brant smiled. ‘’Scuse me.’
Oxford stepped aside. Brant opened the door, paused, said: ‘I may need to talk to you two again. Don’t leave town.’
J is for Judgement (Sue Grafton)
Roberts met with Brant in The Cricketers. He’d parked his car near The Oval, said to The Big Issue vendor, ‘Keep an eye, eh?’ and indicated the motor.
The vendor said, ‘Play fair, Guv, they’d steal yer eye.’
Brant was at the back of the pub, a tepid coffee before him. Roberts put out his hand. ‘Good to see you, Tom,’ and meant it. Then, ‘Don’t you want a real drink?’
‘With all me soul but I was afraid to start.’
‘Start now.’
‘I will.’
They did. Whiskey chasers.
No conversation, let the scotch fill the spaces. Then Brant rummaged in his jacket and produced a squashed hat, said, ‘Got yah a present.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s a bit battered. I fell on it.’
Roberts tentatively touched it, then took it in both hands. ‘I dunno what to say.’
‘Give it some time, it will bounce back.’
‘Like us, eh?’
Brant gave him a look as if he were only now really seeing him, asked, ‘You were sick?’
At last thought Roberts, I can finally share. ‘Naw, nothing worth mentioning.’ Then he added, ‘Falls is out.’
‘Out where?’
‘The force, she resigned.’
Brant was animated, life returning. ‘She can’t do that!’
‘Word is you lent her the dosh to bury her father.’
‘Me?’
‘Did yah?’
‘C’mon Guv, am I a soft touch?’
‘What d’ya say we finish up, go round to see her?’
‘Like now?’
‘You have other plans?’
‘Naw.’
They finished their drinks, got ready to go. Brant asked, ‘Out of vague interest, how much am I supposed to have given her?’
‘Two large.’
Brant didn’t answer, just gave a low whistle. The figure was twice that, but then …
Who was counting?
In Balham, as they approached Falls’ home, Roberts asked, ‘How d’ya want to play this?’
‘Let’s make it up as we go along.’
‘Good plan.’
They banged on the door and no reply. Roberts said, ‘Could be she’s out.’
‘Naw, she’s home, there’s a light.’ Brant took out his keys, said, ‘Pretend you don’t see this,’ and he fidgeted with the lock, pushed the door in.
They were cops accustomed to nigh on any reception. Neither of them could have forecast a skinhead. All of fourteen years old and wielding an iron bar. He shouted, ‘Fuck off outta it.’
‘Wot?’ in chorus.
The skin made a swipe with the bar, said: ‘I’ll do ye.’
Brant turned his back shrugged, then spun back, clouting the skin on the side of the skull. Flipped him, knelt on his back, said, ‘What’s yer game, laddie? Where’s the woman?’
‘Play fair, mate … jeez!’
Roberts had gone searching, shouted, ‘She’s here … in the bathroom.’
‘Is she OK?’
‘Debatable.’
Brant stood up, put a lock on the skin’s neck, gave him two open-handed slaps. ‘Whatcha do to her?’
‘Didn’t do nuffink! I’m protecting her!’
‘Wot?’ Again, in chorus.
Now the skin went bright red with a glow of injured dignity. ‘She gave me a quid one time, so when I seen her ’elpless like, staggerin’ home, leavin’ the door open, I said I’d mind her
till she got her act back. Know what I mean?’
They did, sorta.
Roberts took out his wallet, said, ‘Yah did good, now here’s somefin’ for yer trouble.’
‘I don’t need paying … she’s like … a mate.’
Brant looked at Roberts, then. ‘All right, then, you ever get in a spot o’ bother ask for DI Roberts or DS Brant, we’ll see you right … OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Take off then, that’s a good lad.’
He did.
Roberts said, ‘I’ve seen it all, a skin protecting a copper.’
‘A black copper.’
‘Yeah … go figure.’
They couldn’t.
Together they hoisted Falls into the shower, kept her there till she came round. She came to, to retch, to curse and struggle. Then they dried her and got her into a dressing gown.
Brant rooted in his wallet, took out two pills and forced them into Falls’ mouth. Roberts raised an eyebrow and Brant said, ‘Tranqs … heavy duty sedation.’
Falls said, ‘Don’t want help.’
‘Too bad — it’s underway.’
Brant and Roberts took it in shifts over the next 48 hours, washing her, feeding her, holding her. Times they got some chicken soup down her, times she threw up all over them.
When the horrors came, as come they do, Brant held her tight, wiped the spittle from her mouth. When the sweats coursed down her body, Roberts changed the bed linen, got her a fresh T-shirt.
DAY 3:
Brant’s shift. Falls had slept for eight hours. She woke, her eyes focused, asked, ‘Can I have a cup of tea?’
‘Toast?’
‘OK … I think.’
She could. Two slices, lightly marged. Then she got outta bed, didn’t stagger, said, ‘I could murder a large gin.’
‘Darlin’, it’s near murdered you.’
‘I know … and yet …?’
Brant went and found a drop in one of the pile of bottles, said, ‘There’s a taste in this, enough to fuel you to the off licence.’ He held out the drink. ‘What’s it gonna be, darlin’?’
Perspiration lined her forehead, a tremor hit her body, she said, ‘I ache for it.’
He didn’t speak.
Then she shut her eyes, tight like a child before a surprise. ‘Sling it.’
He did.
Later, after another shower, she asked, ‘Why?’