by Ken Bruen
‘Get a grip, Sergeant.’
How to dress for a hospital? She went with her off-duty gear: jeans, plain sweatshirt, sneakers, but hold a mo. Hospital, cute doctors, right? She went with short skirt, medium heels, some light lippy, and her best jacket, a black blazer, it accentuated her colour, and gave her that casual style that seemed like an afterthought, not the hours of agony it had been. A doctor seeing her was going to go:
‘Hold the bloody transfusions.’
Yeah, that was going to happen.
Checking the mirror with total concentration, she found new lines around her eyes and lied:
‘Laughter ones, is all.’
Her life had been such fun. It was only surprising she hadn’t more, lines that is. Her car, a newish Datsun, had an envelope stuck under the wiper, she reckoned, pizza flyer or such till she saw the handwriting on
the front, it read GIRLFRIEND.
With a sinking heart, she got in the car, looked nervously round, then got the hell out of there.
4
Walking into the hospital, Falls clocked the number of cops, uniforms everywhere, flasks of coffee.
And hookers.
A whole gaggle of them
Falls had never seen so many in one place since her last patrol along Kings Cross and, even more noteworthy, they were quiet.
Silence and hookers are not usually in the same neighbourhood. Falls knew the older ones and approached them, asked:
‘What’s happening, girls?’
The younger ones sneered at her, but Beth, a veteran, said:
‘We’re here for Brant.’
Wait till the press got hold of that. Falls knew Brant would be delighted, asked:
‘Any news?’
Beth glanced at the group of officers in a corner, said:
‘Sure, those pricks are keeping us right up to date.’
Falls nearly smiled, and Beth added:
‘Most of them are shit scared I’ll call them by their first names and I might yet.’
Falls said she’d see what she could learn, and Beth looked at her, said:
‘Lose the blazer.’
Porter detached himself from the brass, came to Falls, snapped:
‘What kept you?’
Falls knew of the odd friendship between him and Brant, but he didn’t need to take it out on her. She lashed back:
‘You called me twenty minutes ago. What you’d think, I’d fucking fly over?’
He backed off, said:
‘There’s no news yet, he’s still in intensive care, I have to go to the station, be debriefed, I was with Brant when he got hit.’
Fallswent into cop mode, asked:
‘Did you see the shooter?’
Porter, his face drawn, said:
‘It happened so quickly, I never got a chance.’
Fallsconsidered that, then said as she moved away:
‘Too busy saving your own skin.’
Robertsarrived, with Andrews in tow, looked stunned to see the hooker convention, and moved to the officers, said:
‘Get them out of here.’
Oneof the younger guys said:
‘They might make a scene.’
Roberts gave him his full gaze, said:
‘Don’t give me fucking lip, give me results.’
Hegrabbed Porter, heard how the shooting went down, then:
‘I had a call from the shooter.’
Porter was astonished, asked:
‘Did he say why?’
Roberts couldn’t believe the stupidity, said:
‘ ’Cos it’s fucking Brant, why’d you think?’
Roberts asked if Brant had any family, and Porter said:
‘We thought you’d be the most likely to know, you being his mate and all.’
Roberts blew that off, said:
‘Nobody is Brant’s mate. Haven’t you learnt anything?’
Roberts did know there’d been a wife and eventually got one of the officers to track her down, got the phone number, and Porter volunteered:
‘If you wish, sir, I can make the call.’
Trying to regain some ground, he felt Roberts had never liked him.
He was right.
Roberts, the mobile in his hand, stopped, asked:
‘Do you know her?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then why the fuck would you call her?’
And turned away. He dialled the number and a woman answered. He explained who he was and in what he hoped was a sympathetic tone, explained what had happened, she cut him off with:
‘Is he dead?’
‘No, thank god…’
‘Call me when he is.’
Click.
Stunned, Roberts stared at the phone. Porter was hovering, asked:
‘How did she take it?’
‘Real well. She sounded like she won the lottery.’
They say all coppers are bastards. They’re not-but those that are make a very good job of it.
— Charlie Kray
5
Terry Dunne was nervous. Not a good feeling for a hit man to have. He’d been in the business for over two years, making a nice rep, building it slow and steady. He’d done a few criminals, guys who’d crossed the wrong people, got greedy, and got whacked. No civilians and, so far, no heat. The cops treated it as almost a service when someone took the wrong uns off the board. So he’d stayed under the radar, his name known to the men who mattered.
When he’d got the assignment for Brant, he’d nearly said no. A cop is a whole other league and the fallout was ferocious, but if you want to move up? Too, the guy who took Brant out was going to be legend, could double, shit, triple his fees. There wasn’t a major villain in South-East London who didn’t want Brant out of the picture. But the bastard, maybe it was his Irish blood, he had the luck of the very devil. Terry had gone along to meet with the man who wanted the hit, he’d been picked up by a BMW on the Clapham Road, and just one occupant in the car, the driver.
He’d opened the door, asked:
‘Terry Dunne?’
When Terry Dunne nodded, the guy said:
‘Hop in, old chap.’
Spokelike a Tory outrider, and he had the looks to match. In his forties, with a ruddy face, prominent nose, beady eyes, and an air of… what did they call it in the posh papers… yeah, bonhomie. Terry learned that word in Scrabble with his old lady. She was a bitch for them frog words, but he’d liked the ring of it, used it every chance. Mind you, the pubs, clubs of Brixton, Kennington, Stockwell, you didn’t get to use it much. Unless you wanted your card marked as pillow biter. You used a word like that, you better be carrying.
The man drove them to Canary Wharf, asking:
‘You’re not in a hurry old bean, are you?’
Not if he was being paid and, as if reading his thoughts, the guy said:
‘You will, of course, be amply rewarded for your time.’
Terry got a good look at him, sneakily, of course, didn’t pay to be too inquisitive. He wondered if the guy was a messenger but doubted it, he had the air of being the main contractor, Terry was surprised, usually, all sorts of middle men were involved. The guy brought the car to a smooth stop on the wharf, asked:
‘Are you at all cognisant with Detective Sergeant Brant?’
Cognisant?
Fuck.
He said:
‘Who isn’t?’
The man gave a loud laugh, far too loud and forced for what was essentially a simple truthful reply. He said:
‘Touche, well said, my learned friend. It means we won’t have to bandy words with explanations, motivations, not that you much care for motive, am I correct in my wild assumption?’
Terry had to concentrate to follow what the bastard was actually saying. He settled for ‘Yeah.’
Truth was, the guy was kind of creepy. You knew if you touched him-and who’d want to? — he’d be ice cold. The guy took out a slim gold cigarette case, extracted a long cigarillo, offered t
he case, and Terry shook his head. The guy asked:
‘Mind if I indulge?’
Like it would matter
Terry said, letting a slight hint of impatience in there:
‘Your dime, mate.’
The man mimicked.
‘ “Mate.” I like it, gives that working-class zing of authenticity, methinks you have sly humour there, mon ami.’
He lit the cig with a gold Zippo, the clink of the lighter sounding loud and final. He blew out a cloud of smoke, said:
‘Well, to business, you’re a busy man I’m sure, I’ll pay you ten large to… remove the aforementioned chap. Two now and the rest on completion.’
Terry felt it was time to take control, said:
‘Oh oh, I get half up front.’
The guy turned in his seat, let Terry see his eyes, washed out blue, as if they’d been bleached. He said in a tone of pure ice:
‘I don’t negotiate with the help. You usually get five for the whole performance, I’m doubling your fee.’
Terry was intimidated but then moved in his seat, the Browning in his belt giving him balls, said:
‘He’s a cop, a very high-profile one.’
The guy lowered his window, tossed the cig, said:
‘Get out.’
Terry had to decide fast, went with:
‘Three now.’
The guy was staring straight ahead, repeated:
‘I don’t negotiate.’
Terry thought, fuck it, and said:
‘Okay.’
Then Terry fucked it up, emptied a whole clip at Brant and the word was, the bastard was still alive, in Intensive Care sure but… not dead. And now Terry had to meet with the posh geezer. Didn’t figure he’d be getting the rest of his money. He’d reloaded the Browning, jammed it in his jacket, and went to the Clapham Road to wait.
The BMW was right on time and he got in, his excuses ready and his pledge to finish the job and… and fuck.
To his amazement, the guy was breezy, asked:
‘And how are we today?’
He sounded downright cheerful, maybe he’d heard Brant croaked? You never knew in this biz, luck, rarely, evident but just possible. He let his tension ease a notch, said:
‘Bit of a cock-up, alas.’
The guy laughed, actually tapped Terry’s knee, said:
‘Hey, no problem, my man. Could happen to the best of us.’
Terry wondered if the guy was a fruit, a lot of these Public School guys, buggery was part of the curriculum. They were heading for Canary Wharf again. The guy eased the car into a space, looked round, said:
‘No prying eyes, one must practise due diligence.’
Terry told him of how the unexpected had happened and the customer had knocked his aim off. The guy listening, his face conveying understanding. Then he asked:
‘You have the weapon with you?’
Terry wasn’t sure where this was going, said:
‘Am, yeah.’
‘May I see it?’
Terry took the weapon out and the guy put out his hand, saying:
‘I trust it’s primed, reloaded?’
Reluctantly, Terry let go of the gun, said:
‘Of course.’
The guy examined it, said:
‘Seems to be fine, must be you.’
Took Terry a moment, then he said:
‘I’ll put it right, don’t you worry about that.’
The guy gave him a full look, asked:
‘Do I look worried to you?’ Then he shot Terry three times in the stomach, said:
‘See, nothing wrong with it.’
Terry saw the blood seep out of his belly, ruining his good jeans, and he knew they’d be a bitch to clean, the guy said:
‘Gut shot, they say it’s agony, are they right?’
They were.
Then the guy leaned over, shoved Terry on the ground, and got out himself, he said:
‘Call this early retirement and here’s your bonus.’
Puttwo more in Terry’s skull. Stared at the body, said:
‘Golly gosh, that is messy.’
Hegot back in the car, eased into first gear, backed up, then drove carefully away. He was humming the theme from the Bridge over the River Kwai, always a favourite of his.
6
McDonald was freezing his nuts off. The cold weather had come with a goddamn vengeance and no matter where he stood, the cold seemed to seek him out, lash him. He was outside the Shopping Centre in Balham, wondering if he’d risk hopping off for a coffee when a group of hoodies passed, teenagers with the hoods pulled up to cover their faces. You couldn’t tell if they were male or female. As they moved by, one of them spat on his shoes.
He lost it, grabbed the figure, dashed him against the wall, said:
‘You want to play games, how’d you like this one, called headbanging.’
He let go and the hood had slipped, revealing a girl, in her late teens, her forehead pouring blood, one of the boys whined:
‘Why’d you do that?’
McDonald smiled, said:
‘Because I can, now get the hell out of here.’
They slumped off, muttering darkly. A pensioner had been watching and McDonald figured, here we go, the old geezer will report me. Did he care? Not a lot. The man said:
‘Let me shake your hand.’
And did.
McDonald was astonished, said:
‘Thank you.’
The man beamed, said:
‘That’s the spirit that put the Great in Britain.’
McDonald asked:
‘Fancy a cup of tea, a bacon sarnie?’
Roberts and Porter were still at the hospital, a doctor approached, asked:
‘Who’s the ranking officer?’
He was looking at Porter, as if he knew it was him, so Porter, said:
‘That would be Chief Inspector Roberts here.’
The doctor was disappointed, sighed, said to Roberts:
‘We’ve got the bullet out and he will be okay, but we’re keeping him in Intensive Care for twenty-four hours, purely precautionary.’
Roberts let his chest relax, didn’t realise how tight he’d been holding himself, Porter said:
‘Thank Christ.’
The doctor asked:
‘Has his family been informed?’
Before Porter could speak, Roberts said:
‘We’re his family’.
The doctor thought, poor bastard, and Roberts asked him:
‘What about headaches?’
The doctor was puzzled, said:
‘He was shot in the back, I don’t think it will necessarily cause headaches.’
Roberts stared at him, said:
‘Not Brant. Me, my head is opening.’
The doctor paused, then:
‘You’ll find a pharmacy on the ground floor.’
And stomped off
Roberts said:
‘Pompous bugger.’
Porter said:
‘The superintendent hasn’t shown.’
Roberts said:
‘He doesn’t know.’
Porter couldn’t believe it, said:
‘I don’t believe it. Shouldn’t he be informed?’
Roberts was rubbing the front of his face, looking tired, said:
‘You’re so worried, you call him.’
Took a while to locate the superintendent, but eventually Porter was given his mobile number by a very irate secretary who cautioned:
‘You better have a very valid reason for disturbing him.’
And hung up.
The Super answered with a gruff:
‘Who the hell is this?’
Not a very promising opening, Porter ploughed on:
‘It’s Porter Nash, sir.’
Silence for a moment, then:
‘I’m in the middle of a round of golf. This better be good.’
Porter took a deep breath, said:
‘Sergeant Brant has
been shot.’
No hesitation now:
‘Is he dead?’
‘No, sir, he’s going to pull through, thank god.’
Porter could hear Brown tell someone else and presumed he was already pulling out all the stops, getting all personnel mobilized, Brown said:
‘You might thank god, laddie, others would see it differently.’
Porter knew that Brant had been a constant problem to Brown and all the brass, but he’d expected at least a show of vague concern.
Nope.
Wasn’t going to get it. He tried to keep the anger out of his voice, asked:
‘Would you like the details of the shooting, sir?’
‘You think they’ll improve my chances of getting on the green in less than two strokes?’
Roberts was staring at Porter, obviously aware of how it was going, Porter said:
‘No sir, I don’t see how it could possibly improve your… performance.’
Porter could have been mistaken but he heard what sounded awfully like a titter?
Brown said:
‘Tell Roberts, he’s his mate, if an animal like Brant could be said to have such. Personally I doubt it.’
Click.
Roberts watched Porter slam the mobile on the palm of his hand, said:
‘He was full of concern I’d guess.’
Porter wanted to hit somebody, said:
‘He was full of shit is what he was.’
Roberts thought there might be hope for Porter yet and asked him if he fancied a pint? And to his astonishment, Porter agreed, giving his number to the nurses station lest there be any change. On their way out, a large man stopped them, asked in a Yank accent:
‘How’s our boy doing?’
Porter said:
‘He’s going to be fine, you want to come for a jar?’
‘Is that like a beer?’
Roberts, already out of all patience, snapped:
‘Do we look like we’re going for a cup of tea?’
And kept moving. The Yank looked to Porter who just shook his head and indicated he should just trail along.
He did.
They went to the Black Lion, recently taken over by a retired cop named Sully They got a table at the rear and Sully limped over, the cause of his retirement. He said:
‘Real sorry to hear about Brant.’
Roberts said:
‘Yeah, bring me a large Scotch and whatever these fellahs want?’