Ammunition ib-7

by Ken Bruen

  ‘Have a seat, Sergeant.’

  Crumbs littered his shirt and she resolved not to hear the sounds he’d make. Instead, she focused on his use of… ’Sergeant.’ Good sign. He gave her a wide smile, not a pretty sight. With particles staining his teeth, he said:

  ‘Fine work on that Happy-Slapper case, I intended pairing you and Lane together again, but he has requested a pairing with somebody else.’

  He waited, drank some tea or rather gaggled it, Falls said nothing, and then he asked:

  ‘Was there a problem with him?’

  She said:

  ‘He doesn’t like women.’

  The Super considered this and said:

  ‘He’s an old-fashioned cop, taking orders from a woman would be very difficult for him, his type of copper. They’re on their way out.’

  Falls wanted to say, Pity they wouldn’t take the Super with them. She nodded at the apparent wisdom of his insight. He drained the last of his tea, belched, said:

  ‘I’m putting you with Andrews, she could learn a lot from an old pro like you.’

  He leaned on the word pro, letting the slur linger. Then he surprised her by asking:

  ‘How much influence have you got with our Sergeant Brant?’

  She told the truth, said:

  ‘I don’t think anyone has much sway over him.’

  Hefrowned, then:

  ‘I hear he’s coming back and you know, a smart resourceful person like you, if you saw a way to persuade him to resign, the sky would be the limit in your own career.’

  Translate as:

  Help me shaft the bastard.

  Falls said she would do what she could, and the Super beamed, said:

  ‘That’s my girl. I felt I could rely on you, I see you and I doing great things.’

  Appointing her his new hatchet person, she knew what had happened to McDonald, but she was smart enough to play along. She said:

  ‘I’ll give it my full attention, sir.’

  Thinking:

  Like fuck I will.

  She was dismissed with more praise ringing in her ears. She walked straight into Roberts, who said:

  ‘I believe you’re the new golden girl.’

  She and Roberts had a varied and complicated history, having each seen the other at their lowest ebb, they weren’t so much friends as uneasy allies. She asked:

  ‘Do I look delighted?’

  Roberts gave her his slow look, then said:

  ‘What you ought to do is look over your shoulder, often, and very carefully.’

  Gee, like this was something she didn’t know.

  She found Lane in the canteen, an uneaten sandwich before him and a glass of milk, she didn’t ask if she could join him, just sat down opposite him, demanded:

  ‘What’s your fucking problem?’

  He stared at her, said:

  ‘I rang a check on our Mr Coleman and, guess what, he’s clean. Never been in trouble in his life, and just finished a course in computer studies.’

  Falls didn’t like the sound of this, not one bit, snapped:

  ‘Hey, you saw him swaggering down the street, bumping into people.’

  Lane pushed his sandwich away, the end of the bread had curled up. Like a bad rumour, he said:

  ‘He’s an intense young man, perhaps he was just preoccupied.’

  Falls gave a bitter laugh, one that Brant would have been proud of, said:

  ‘Well, he certainly has plenty to be preoccupied about now.’

  Lanelooked at her, his eyes a watery blue, like denim on its last legs, said:

  ‘It’s his birthday today’.

  Boy, she was finding Lane a real pain in the arse, asked:

  ‘Whose birthday?’

  Lane let out a long sigh, like a wounded animal, said:

  ‘Our suspect, he’s twenty-one today’.

  Falls knew it was time to lay weight, said:

  ‘The Super is happy, the media will be delighted, we look good, we’re off that shitty detail, everybody wins.’

  Lane was shaking his head:

  ‘That young man doesn’t.’

  Falls had had enough of his whining, said:

  ‘Shit happens. He’ll get what, a slap on the wrist, maybe a nominal fine, and he’ll be a law-abiding citizen for the rest for his life. We’ve actually put him on the right road.’

  Lane was now wringing his hands. She noticed his fingernails were bitten to the quick, he said:

  ‘Sergeant, you know that’s not going to happen, they’ll make an example of him, the press want it, the Super will demand it, that kid is looking at least two years.’

  Falls stood up, warned:

  ‘You’re not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you, that would be a really bad move?’

  Lane said, more to himself:

  ‘You know, I haven’t led a very distinguished career, but I’ve never done anything I couldn’t sleep about, I don’t want to end my time with that ruined life on my conscience.’

  Falls put her face right in his, said:

  ‘Don’t fuck with me, Lane’.

  And she got out of there. She was worried. If Lane came clean, not only would she lose her new stripes, she’d be thrown off the force and probably arrested. She was fucked if she’d let that happen. She’d need to see Brant and soon.

  Roberts was in the corridor, summoned her, said:

  ‘Come into my office, we have a situation.’

  Jesus, she thought, what now?

  Roberts sat behind his desk, moved all his papers aside, said:

  ‘Last Friday night, in Balham, a group of vigilantes put some local hard cases in the hospital, shot one in the knees, broke the jaw of the ringleader.’

  Falls, like most cops, secretly admired vigilante justice. It got the job done and reached the untouchables. She’d been on the fringes of the same justice herself and more than once. She knew for a fact that Brant frequently operated in such a manner.

  She said:

  ‘So, we have one less gang of thugs to worry about.’

  Roberts gave a grim smile, said:

  ‘Normally I’d agree with you, but one of the vigilantes got knifed, died of a subsequent heart attack. The man who brought him to the hospital was detained by a cop from Balham.’

  Falls couldn’t see the problem. So one of the vigilantes bought the farm, as the Yanks say, so what. They were thousands of pissed-off citizens out there more than ready to pick up the cause.

  Roberts wasn’t finished, continued:

  ‘The dead guy, get this… he was seventy-five years’

  Falls laughed, said:

  ‘Pensioners kicking arse, it’s a new twist.’

  Roberts was staring out the window, said:

  ‘His mate, the one who was detained, he had a fairly intriguing allegation.’

  Falls couldn’t wait to hear it, said:

  ‘I can’t wait to hear it.’

  Roberts turned round to face her, said:

  ‘He alleges that they were organized and led by… a cop.’

  Took her a moment to digest this, then she said:

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  Roberts expression suggested it was highly possible, he said:

  ‘I want you and Andrews to investigate this. If the press get wind of it, they’ll hang us out to dry. Go and see this guy who’d made the allegation and whatever it takes, make it go away, you understand me?’

  She stood up, said:

  ‘Yes sir.’

  She was at the door when he said:

  ‘Liz, be discreet.’

  Using her first name showed the strain he was under and just how seriously he was taking this. Before tackling this, she had a call to make, Angie’s solicitor, an aggressive cop hater, would be the one to tell her about Angie and, with any luck, maybe even where she was staying.

  She found Andrews in the gym, working out, of course, doing the heavy weights, building up the muscle. Falls said:

  ‘We hav
e an assignment, of a rather sensitive nature. Pick me up in The Elephant and Castle in two hours.’

  She didn’t wait for a reply.

  Ellen Dunne, the darling of the Left and the scourge of the Met, had her offices in The Elephant and Castle. She was highly successful and could easily have moved to more impressive locations, but she knew it was good for her image to be in the war zone, kept her cred up to speed. Her secretary, who looked like a bull dyke, treated Falls with barely concealed hostility and said Ellen was busy. Falls knew the dance, the moves, said:

  ‘She’s too busy to see a black woman?’

  The woman glared at her, rang through, and then:

  ‘She’ll give you five minutes.’

  Falls gave her her best smile and said:

  ‘And you’ll be timing me, am I right?’

  The secretary grunted.

  ‘Ellen Dunne had aged. The last time Falls had seen her was at Angle’s trial. Now, her hair was grey, lines ran down the sides of her cheeks, and her clothes seemed slept in. Falls figured, if you spent your life defending scumbags, it rubbed off. She sat behind a large desk, piled with papers, a cigarette burning in a flowing ashtray. She watched Falls approach, said:

  ‘You’re here to make my day, right?’

  Falls liked Ellen, though she continually harassed the cops, made their lives hell, she had a basic integrity that was appealing. Falls said:

  ‘You look like shit.’

  Ellen nearly smiled, she knew the crap Falls took as a woman and a black woman in the force. She countered:

  ‘You’re trying to get on my good side I think, so, what can I can I do for you…, Sergeant. Who’d you have to fuck for that promotion?’

  Falls let that slide, asked:

  ‘Angie, your client, she’s out.’

  Ellen’s face clouded over, and Falls thought she spotted a shadow of… fear? Ellen lit a fresh cigarette, the old one still burning, wiped a hand across her eyes, said:

  ‘She certainly is.’

  Falls realized the woman was on the verge of some kind of breakdown, pressed:

  ‘How’d that happen? I thought she was gone for good.’

  Ellen let out a long sigh, said:

  ‘She became a whiz kid on the law, so many of them do, they’ve nothing else to do, 1 suppose… and she discovered a discrepancy in my defence of her, was able to show I hadn’t given her the full extent of my renowned talent… bingo, she got an appeal, and I don’t have to tell you what a charmer she is… she had the new judge eating out of her hand, she got out two weeks ago.’

  Falls was horrified, said:

  ‘But she killed at least three people that we know of.’

  Ellen sat back, weariness all over her, said:

  ‘I’ve been practising for twenty years and met every kind of animal you can imagine, and yes, I defended them, with all my energy. But Angie, she was the first one to ever scare me. When I went to defend her, I made sure she’d be found guilty. It never cost me a night’s sleep, there are the rare ones like her, who should never see the light of day’.

  Falls asked:

  ‘Do you know where she is?’

  Ellen shook her head, then:

  ‘She phoned me, said she’d be round to settle my account.’

  Then she looked at Falls, said:

  ‘I’m guessing you’ve heard from her too.’

  Falls didn’t bother to deny it, asked:

  ‘Do you want me to arrange some protection for you?’

  Ellen smiled, a sad resigned one, said:

  ‘Having cops around me, real bad for business.’

  Falls took out a pen, some paper, said:

  ‘Here’s my number. You want help, I’m there.’

  Ellen didn’t bother to take the paper, said:

  ‘You watch your own back, she might decide to see you first.’

  Falls felt a flash of rage. She hated to see this spirited woman so crushed, near shouted:

  ‘I’m not afraid of her.’

  Ellen had already dismissed her, her head back among the pile of files, and Falls was at the door when Ellen added:

  ‘You should be.’

  Andrews was parked at The Elephant and Castle and Falls got in, said:

  ‘Drive to Balham.’

  Andrews could tell from Falls’s face that she was not exactly in a sunny disposition, but asked:

  ‘What’s our assignment?’

  Falls was silent for a full minutes, then said:

  ‘A rogue cop.’

  Andrews didn’t want to push, so said:

  ‘That’s not good.’

  Falls spat:

  ‘It’s fucked is what it is.’

  I am here to fight feminism.

  — Marc Lepine, before he massacred fourteen female students at Montreal University

  14

  Porter Nash had been going through Brant’s cases, trying to find who might have the most cause to actually take out a contract on him. It had to be serious if you were to risk offing a cop. Thing was, almost every single case, with Brant’s unique style of policing, gave rise to a suspect. It was fast becoming… who wouldn’t want to shoot him?

  Jesus, Porter had wanted to take a pop himself.

  These files were, of course, only the official ones, 90 per cent of Brant’s activities were… as they say… off the books. He wasn’t exactly the type of cop who wrote up a report on his actions. His spectre loomed large over South-East London. There wasn’t a villain, snitch, or hooker who didn’t know of him or about him. The two people who probably knew him best, if anyone ever knew him, were Roberts and Falls, and they were saying very little. Falls when Porter had approached her, snapped:

  ‘What, you working for Internal Affairs now?’

  Shut that right down.

  And Roberts, his reply:

  ‘Are you questioning me?’

  Real big help.

  But with the scant data at his disposal, Porter could already put some names on the list. One, a Spanish woman who’d tried to poison Brant and got eight years for her troubles. She was now out and present whereabouts… unknown. Second, the legendary top villain, Bill, who’d more or less run the South-East till Brant closed him down. Like most retired villains, he was living it large on the Costa del Sol. Easy enough to arrange a hit from sunny Spain, all you needed was the cash. The actual shooter, Terry Dunne, was simply a gun for hire. Porter checked his file, he had lived with his girlfriend in Clapham, Porter noted the address, figured it wouldn’t hurt to pay her a visit, see if she knew who contracted her late lover. Third, and here, Porter’s interest grew, The Case of the Clap-ham Rapist. A vicious serial rapist had been terrorizing the Clapham, Balham areas, Falls was used as a decoy, with McDonald as backup. McDonald had fucked up, and Falls had been literally pinned down by the rapist, a knife to her throat, when Brant appeared, and here’s where it got murky… in the ensuing melee, the rapist had fallen on his own knife. It stank to high heaven and no investigation had followed as the public were so relieved to have the rapist off the radar.

  Porter checked his name.

  Barry Lewis, thirty-two years old, a short-order cook. He had one brother, Rodney, a trader in the city. Porter sat back, he’d heard the tapes of the calls made to Roberts. A posh voice, arrogant air… yeah, sounded like all the financial wankers Porter had the misfortune to know.

  He underlined Rodney’s name, and address, lived in an apartment in Mayfair, lots of cash is how that translated. Porter said aloud:

  ‘Rodney, I must pay you a visit.’

  Old Rodney certainly had the wedge to hire a shooter and, Christ, he certainly had motive. Waiting all these years made sense. Who’d believe he wouldn’t have acted at the time. Porter’s instincts told him this was definitely looking promising. His phone rang, and speak of the devil, it was Brant, who said:

  ‘I’m being discharged today.’

  Porter said:

  ‘That’s great, how do you feel?’

&n
bsp; A pause as he heard Brant inhale what must have been a lethal amount of nicotine, then:

  ‘Feel?… I feel fucking pissed off, when are you coming to collect me?’

  Porter didn’t know he’d been assigned the task, said:

  ‘I didn’t know I’d been assigned the task?’

  Brant whistled, it pierced Porter’s eardrum, then:

  ‘Oh, it’s a task is it?’

  Porter closed the files, tried:

  ‘I didn’t mean that, I’m on my way.’

  If Brant was grateful, he wasn’t expressing it, said:

  ‘Get some coffee en route. The shite they serve here isn’t fit for Pakis.’

  Porter sighed, he never got used to the casual racialism of his fellow officers. He asked:

  ‘Anything else?’

  Letting the sarcasm leak all over the question, Brant said:

  ‘A slice of Danish and, mind, real coffee, none of that designer crap you pofftahs drink.’

  Click.

  Porter wondered for the hundredth time how on earth he managed to sustain his friendship with this… pig?

  He ran into Roberts on his way out, said he was en route to collect Brant. Roberts gave a grim, knowing smile, asked:

  ‘And how is he?’

  ‘Rude as hell.’

  ‘Ah, he’s recovered then.’

  When Porter arrived at the hospital, he was in a foul mood, a git had cut him in traffic and worse, given him the finger. Jesus, if he’d had time, he’d have gone after the prick, done him for every traffic violation in the manual.

  His diabetes was really acting up something fierce, he was way past his check-up time, his glucose levels were through the fucking roof.

  Stress, the number one enemy of insulin protection and he was under more stress than Tony Blair. Then he parked in the hospital, conscious he was way late for Brant, and a parking guy came running over, shouting:

  ‘Hoy, you… the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’

  Porter swirled on him, the guy was small but built, and his whole body language suggested he’d had one shit life and everybody was going to pay the freight, Porter whipped out his warrant card, said:

  ‘You talking to me?’

  The guy backed off a bit, not too much but sufficient, said:

  ‘That space is for hospital staff, not even cops are supposed to use it.’