by Ken Bruen
‘So, my dancing ponce, who shot our sergeant?’
Saw Caz’s eyes shift and knew, bingo, the bastard knew. Roberts was astonished, he knew Caz had access to information that others could only dream of but this fast? He kept his face in neutral as Caz extended his sympathy, saying how much he respected the sergeant and Roberts let him ramble on for a few minutes, then snarled:
‘I asked you a question?’
Caz looked at Andrews, a lecherous smile building, asked:
‘There is a reward, no, I mean, a shot policeman, this is major event.’
Roberts had to bite down on his desire to reach over and throttle the snitch. He said:
‘Oh yeah. You help bring in a cop shooter, you’re talking major recompense.’
Caz had been promised rewards before and usually ended up with a sore jaw after Brant had dished out his form of compensation. Caz sat back, said:
‘I thought so, so how about we have a little good faith cash up front?’
Roberts sighed, Jesus, he was tired, tired of having to deal with scum, said:
‘You give me the name, you’ll be paid. You know how it works.’
Caz weighed his options then on impulse, gave it up, said:
‘Terry Dunne, he’s the one did the shooting.’
Andrews was amazed, could it be so easy, you went to a snitch and he solved your case.
Roberts asked:
‘And this piece of work, where do we find him?’
Caz laughed, not a pretty sound, more like a cackle, asked:
‘Am I to do all your work, Chief Inspector? He’s local, but that’s all I know.’
Roberts mobile shrilled and he stood up, said:
‘I’ll take this outside.’
Andrews wasn’t wild about being left alone with the low-life and was even more bothered when Caz gave her his full-wattage smile, a blend of malice and lust, he asked:
‘You like dancing, chiquita?’
She wasn’t going to get into a conversation with this creep, snapped:
‘No.’
He loved it, leaned over, his hand poised to touch hers, said:
‘You have not been with the maestro, I meet you Saturday night, I take you the Crystal, show you some steps, and after, ah… after, mi bonita, I show you some moves you never forget.’
Andrews stomped his left foot, hard, and he reeled back, his face contorted in agony and rage, spat:
‘Cunt… puta, you are a lesbian, no?’
Roberts was back and seeing Caz’s pain, smiled, said:
‘I see you guys hit it off.’
Andrews said:
‘I showed him some moves.’
Roberts liked it, a lot, said:
‘Let’s move. See if Mr Dunne is currently available.’
Caz, massaging his left foot, demanded:
‘What about my money?’
Roberts was already moving, said:
‘Cheque’s already in the mail.’
Caz swore for the hundredth time. He was definitely getting into a new line of work, and the puta, he’d find a way to settle with her. Roberts he couldn’t touch but her, the bitch, what was she? A constable… ha… a nothing and he felt better at the various ways he could fuck with her.
Outside, Roberts stood for a moment, watching the traffic till Andrews went:
‘Sir?’
It was like he’d forgotten she was there, he said:
‘What?’
She was anxious to get moving, get this Terry Dunne before the word got out. They brought him in, it was a career maker, a white arrest in fact. The mythical Holy Grail of policework, the case that made you golden. She said:
‘Shouldn’t we be moving, get this Terry Dunne before he goes to ground.’
Roberts shoulders slumped, he said:
‘Oh our Mr Dunne isn’t going anywhere.’
She was surprised, asked:
‘You know where he is?’
She was beginning to understand why Roberts was a chief inspector. He looked at her, said:
‘He’s in the morgue.’
She didn’t know what to make of that and Roberts, seeing her confusion, said:
‘He was found on Canary Wharf, three bullets in the gut, two in the head.’
Was the case over then she wondered and, as if reading her mind, Roberts said:
‘It means he fucked up so they terminated his employment, next time, it will a more serious effort.’
She echoed:
‘Next time.’
Roberts was heading towards the car, said:
‘The next time they take a run at Brant.’
Roberts let her do the driving and seemed sunk in gloom, she asked:
‘Where to now, sir?’
He didn’t raise his head, said:
‘Good question.’
Backat the station, Roberts told her to go the canteen, get some teas, and bring them back to his office. She was going to protest that she was a policewoman, getting tea was not her job, but felt it wouldn’t be the best time to bring it up. So, with sarcasm barely concealed, she asked:
‘And how would Sir like it?’
Without missing a beat, he said:
‘Quickly.’
Seething, she was en route when the notice board caught her attention, the results of the sergeants’ exams were posted and she scrolled the names, saw Falls had made it, muttered:
‘That’s all I need.’
She knew Falls had failed twice already and this would have been her last shot, Andrews was confident Falls would fail again. But the cow had passed. The chances of Andrews making that rank were out the window now. Two female sergeants in the same station.
Yeah, like that was ever going to happen.
The whole day was down the toilet and she was running errands, like some airhead secretary. She’d have to rethink her whole strategy, get her name back up there in lights.
The worst part was, when she ran into Falls, she was going to have to do that whole gushing delighted gig, act like she was over the bleeding moon. She could feel bile in her throat. A passing cop said:
‘The chief inspector wants to know if you’re brewing the tea yourself, you’d need to show a bit more initative.’
Words failed her.
Roberts rang the hospital, got the update on Brant, not only was the sergeant sitting up but complaining. Roberts had arranged for two armed cops to be on duty at Brant’s door.
Brant, on hearing the names of the two officers assigned, had said:
‘Those fucks are likely to shoot me themselves.’
If he kept whining, Roberts might take a shot too. He’d put the phone down, roared:
‘Where’s me bloody tea?’
The phone shrilled again and he snapped up the receiver, barked:
‘What?’
Heard:
‘Tut, tut, Chief Inspector, is that any way to answer a call?’
The posh bastard, the one who’d called about shooting Brant, Roberts counted to ten, then said:
‘Tell me you want to give yourself up.’
Heard that eerie cackle, like some crazed banshee, the guy said:
‘Here I am, doing your work for you, and I don’t detect… sorry, no pun intended, I don’t sense any gratitude.’
Andrews came in, put the tea on his desk, spilling a part on his files. He glared at her and she scarpered. He returned his attention to the call, asked:
‘Sorry, mate, what am I supposed to be grateful for?’
A moment’s hesitation, then:
‘Don’t be coy, Inspector, Canary Wharf… ring any bells?’
Roberts decided to go with it, said:
‘We discovered the body of a man there, so?’
A sound of irritation, then:
‘Don’t play silly buggers with me, Inspector, I’m trying to keep you in… how do they term it… ah yes, in the loop, but you’re trying my patience.’
Roberts felt a small victory. He’d annoyed
the bastard, get him angry, he’d got careless. He said:
‘Are you telling me the man we found is connected to the shooting of Sergeant Brant?’
The guy’s voice had upped an octave, and he said:
‘Very good, Inspector. Yes, he was the shooter, if a rather poor one, so I felt it best to terminate his contract.’
Roberts chanced a gulp of tea, it burned like a mother, made him near retch and… no fucking sugar. He’d have Andrews’s arse, he asked:
‘You’re telling me you killed him, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Bravo, Inspector, you’re finally on the same page.’
This was one of those expressions that got up Roberts’s nose, nearly as bad as… singing from the same hymn sheet.
Roberts asked:
‘And now, where we do go from here?’
Another chuckle and the guy said.
‘You’re familiar with the expression, if at first…?’
Roberts felt a surge of adrenaline, asked:
‘You’re not seriously going to try again?’
As he said it, the voice said:
‘See, we’re singing from the same hymn sheet.’
Click.
He was gone.
The cops don’t want anybody to have guns except them-I wonder why?
— Eddie Bunker
10
McDonald prepared for his meet with the old-age vigilantes, that’s how he thought of them, get a pension and get armed. He wore a black track suit, put a knit cap in his pocket, pulled on a black windbreaker, and in the side pocket, slipped his Walther PKK.
This weapon he’d taken off a drug dealer in Brixton. It gave him a sense of power that continued to amaze him. He’d stood in front of the mirror, the weapon in his right hand, hanging loosely by his side, casual but lethal, a half smile on his face, asking his reflection:
‘You wanna fuck with me? Huh, that what you want?’
Why it came out in an American accent was not something he analysed. It just seemed to run with the deal. It felt… fitting. He’d levelled the gun at his reflection on many nights when he’d overindulged in the marching powder, thinking of the coke.
Man, that shit sneaks up on you, you start, like what, the odd line? Then a few more at the weekend, you know, ease the brewskis along, then fuck, next thing Monday mornings, you wake, you are brewing coffee, hopping in the shower, popping bread in the toaster.
Are you, fuck?
You’re on your knees on the carpet, scraping up dust and hopefully remnants of cocaine and the damn question of course, You got a little Jones going here, fellah? Naw, course not, so your nose streamed a bit, it was fucking England, damp weather, what’d you expect?
Lately, he’d cut back on the old nose candy, got himself up to speed, in the real sense, scored some amphetamines, now those babes, they kept you sharp, kept you in the game and man, he so wanted to be a player, and if they wouldn’t let him be a force in the Force, then fuck ‘em, he’d get his own followers. So, they were old, you can’t get it all.
He put a few tabs of the speed in his trouser pocket and, yeah, he was ready to roll. He saluted himself in the mirror, said:
‘Let’s go dispense some frontier justice.’
He got the tube to Balham. The old codger had a council house just down from the station. He came out of the station and the minute he hit the street, he could feel the vibe, not exactly drums beating but the blood in the wind, the simmering violence in the air. He smiled, it was gonna be a good one. On his way to the house, two different guys gave him the hard stare, the granite-eyed question:
‘The fuck you looking at?’
He loved it, the dope cruising in his veins, the Walther snug in his jacket. He began to hum the theme from The Sopranos.
His fervour faltered a little when he got into the house and old Bill introduced him to the crew. Jesus, how old were they?
Four of them, none under seventy. Bill said:
‘Meet the gang.’
McDonald snapped:
‘No names, this is a professional gig.’
Got their attention.
Already, from the street, he could hear the shouts, yahoos of the coming evening. One of the men looked nervously towards the window, and Bill said:
‘It’s early yet, they’re just warming up, come midnight they’ll be in full roar.’
McDonald said nothing for a moment, then asked:
‘You get everything?’
Bill, anxious to please, went to get the equipment and one of the guys asked McDonald:
‘You’re a copper?’
He had an edge, an accusation to his question.
McDonald said:
‘I’m your best hope is what I am.’
A guy wearing a tartan scarf asked:
‘What do you think we can do, they’re running riot out there?’
McDonald said:
‘We’re going to reclaim a tiny part of Great Britain.’
They stared at him with scepticism and he said:
‘First we take back this street and then who knows.’
Bill arrived back, with a bin liner, emptied the contents on the carpet, out tumbled baseball bats, balaclavas, cricket bats, and one lethal-looking hammer.
McDonald said:
‘Okay, let’s get primed.’
He doled out the various items and the men seemed unsure as they hefted the various weapons. McDonald asked:
‘Is there a key figure in the gangs?’
Bill said:
‘A West Indian kid, about twenty, he seems to control most of the activity. He’s always surrounded by four or five dangerous-looking guys, one black and three white guys.’
He sounded horrified that white men would be part of such mayhem. McDonald asked:
‘He got a name?’
One of the others said:
‘They call him “Trick”.’
McDonald smiled, said:
‘Trick or treat.’
He checked his watch, looked at Bill, said:
‘We have some time, how about some refreshments while I lay out the plan of action.’
Bill had sherry, some cider, and a bottle of gin that looked like it had been there since the Second World War. Bill dispensed mugs and McDonald did the host bit, poured gener ous amounts of each beverage to his crew. He had a large gin himself, said:
‘Now listen up, this is not going to be pretty, once we get out there, you do exactly like I’m about to tell you. If you have any qualms, get to fuck home now.’
He waited, saw some nervous glances, but they stayed put, he said:
‘Good, now here’s how it’s going to go down.’
When he’d finished, one of the men, sipping sherry, asked:
‘Isn’t that a tad… drastic?’
McDonald walked over to him, stopped, then lashed out, knocking the mug across the room, said:
‘Don’t ever… ever question me. You want to live in fear, huddled under the sheets, or do you want to be a man?’
There was a stunned silence, then Bill said:
‘We’re with you, Boss.’
McDonald liked that, liked it a lot.
The four old men, McDonald watched them as the time ticked away and the noise from the street intensified. There was the guy in the tartan scarf who seemed gung ho, especially after the pint of cider. Next, was a guy with thick glasses, and McDonald tagged him as the owl. He might be useful if he could actually see anything. Bill, of course, and sitting beside him was a solid-looking man, who might have been a docker in his day. McDonald reckoned he’d be fine. Then was there the librarian, you just knew he’d never swung anything more wieldly than a book.
McDonald went through the strategy again, insisting they not waver from this, the whole fuel being… fast and dirty.
He popped a tab of speed and told them to suit up. In the balaclavas, dark clothing, they seemed a touch more formidable but not really up to close scrutiny. He nodded and as the
y moved to the back door, the librarian halted, said: ‘I can’t… I can’t go out there.’
McDonald wanted to knock him on his arse, the whole deal could fold right there, he said:
‘Okay, that’s fine. You go and gather up some serious booze, you can be the provisions officer. We’ll need fortifying.’
And then they were moving along the back garden, McDonald held a thick length of pipe in his hand, they came round the street, McDonald in the lead, the four close behind.
Gathered round a minivan were a loud, boisterous group. The centre was a small guy in his twenties, swigging from a bottle of vodka, giving it large. Trick
As arranged, they waded in immediately, swinging bats, hammer, and not uttering a sound. They felled most of the gang in the initial assault, and McDonald was cheered to see the docker give a few extra kicks to the guy he’d dropped. Then McDonald was in front of Trick, whose jaw had literally dropped, he gasped:
‘The fuck is this?’ McDonald swung the pipe, crushing the guy’s lower jaw, and kicked him in the balls as his head snapped back, McDonald knelt by him, grabbed his hair, twisted, said:
‘You ever appear in this street again, we’ll kill you and everyone belonging to you.’
He heard a groan behind him, Bill had taken a knife in the gut, the knife holder was standing now, professional stance, his mouth leaking blood, he glared at them, growled:
‘C’mon, you wankers, who’s next…?’
They’d had the initial advantage of surprise and had done really well but it all hung in the balance, a moment when all could go down the toilet, and he could sense his crew on the verge of flight.
He shot the knife holder, in both knees, said:
‘Troops disengage.’
He had to drag Bill along, blood seeping from his stomach, the docker grabbed his other arm and they were down the street, circled behind the houses and back thorough the gardens. McDonald could hear the wail of sirens. It struck him that for the first time in his career, that sound was the enemy. They were back inside the house, the librarian waiting, his face chalky white. McDonald ordered:
‘Hit the lights, we’ll stay in the kitchen.’
There were three bottles of Glenfiddich on the kitchen table, McDonald got Bill onto a chair, let his head rest on the table, and grabbed a bottle, tore the seal off it, drank deep, passed the bottle to the docker, and then examined Bill’s wound. It was nasty, and Bill had gone into shock. McDonald grabbed another bottle, got the top off, and poured the whisky on the gash, Bill howled in anguish, McDonald commanded: