Vixen ib-5

by Ken Bruen

  More and more, she was coming to believe he had been right. Using a brush, she flicked flecks of white off the tunic, and ran a hand through her frizzy hair. Once, in a moment of madness, she’d had all the kinks ironed out and that had hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

  Rosie had been alive then and when she’d seen the result, she’d wailed:

  ‘Oh, big mistake! Are you trying to pass for white?’

  That hurt and in more ways than she’d ever admit. Rosie had been her best friend, a WPC on the ladder up. They’d called themselves the poor man’s Cagney and Lacey, and had shared the chauvinism they’d had to endure on a daily basis. Then one day Rosie had gone on a routine call, a domestic, hardly even worth writing up. The guy, a junkie with Aids, had bitten her. Tormented as to how she’d tell her husband, she’d slit her wrists and taken a long, hot bath; was dead before the water went cold. Falls had sworn then that she’d never get close to another cop, it was too risky.

  She arrived early at the station and at the door, a fresh faced young woman in uniform eagerly approached, asking, ‘WPCFlass?’

  Falls sighed, said:

  ‘You’re going to be a policewoman?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Then take the bloody time to get my name right.’

  The woman was in those impossible early twenties, where they look barely sixteen. She had black hair cut short, brown eyes and a face that might have been described as pretty if you had three drinks behind you. The uniform disguised her shape but she seemed to be in good physical nick. It was the fresh-faced energy that annoyed Falls, the gung-ho, raring- to-go shit that they presented. Falls asked:

  ‘How did you know it was me?’

  The woman looked back towards the desk sergeant, who was grinning from ear to ear, hesitated, and Falls said:

  ‘Spit it out, he told you to wait for the nigger, is that it? You want to work with me, you better get honest; I can’t stand lies.’

  This was a little rich coming from Falls, who told lies all the time, but what the hell? The thing with young people is they tend to believe outrageous crap like that. The woman gave an uncertain smile, said:

  ‘He told me you’d be late… and that you’d be hung-over… oh, and that you were black as his shoe.’

  Falls gave him the look, which he enjoyed immensely, the fuck even winked, and then she asked:

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘WPC Andrews.’

  The pride with which she trotted it out was appalling and, worse, you knew she’d rehearsed it a hundred times, probably in front of a mirror. She’d have a family, a happy mum and dad who were so proud of their little girl. All the frigging neighbours would have turned out to wish her well and they’d watch The Bill with renewed vigour. Falls gave her the fixed stare, said:

  ‘One of the traits required of a police person is accuracy: an ability to actually listen to the question you are asked. Now let’s try again: what is your name, not your flaming rank and serial number, can you do that?

  She could and said:

  ‘Patricia Andrews, but my friends call me Trish.’

  This was much as Falls expected: stupidity and confidence, the worst combination there is. In jig time, of course, she’d be called Julie and every wag in the station would whistle ‘The Sound of Music’ at least once as she passed. Falls brushed past her, said:

  ‘Let’s get to the most important part of policing.’

  Andrews was near gushing, went:

  ‘We’re going to get our assignment?’

  ‘No, we’re going to get tea.’

  Falls led the way, a disappointed Andrews trailing behind. The canteen was full of uniformed officers who all turned to gawk at the new girl. Falls said:

  ‘You’ll need to know two things — the tea lady is named Gladys and the morons here call tea “a Sid Vicious” because in the movie Sid and Nancy, Gary Oldman tells his record exec to get a tea with two sugars and adds “Yah cunt”.’

  Andrews didn’t understand this at all and Falls wasn’t sure she did either. Falls took a table and Andrews asked:

  ‘So do I ask Gladys for a Sid Vicious?’

  ‘No, you ask for two teas and a Club Milk.’

  Andrews lightened and asked:

  ‘Oh, can I have a Club Milk too?’

  ‘It’s not for us, it’s for Brant.’

  As Andrews approached the counter she glanced back at Falls and that’s when the bomb went off.

  10

  It was a small blast, only damaging the counter and Gladys’ nerves. But there was consternation in the canteen and men rushing for the exit. Brant appeared and moved quickly to the area, pulled Andrews clear, said:

  ‘Get the fuck out, there might be a second.’

  The station was evacuated and the Bomb Squad arrived, as did the press. Cops were piled three lines deep outside and within a half-hour, the all-clear was given and the canteen sealed off for Forensics. A mobile catering van was ordered as the cops couldn’t — wouldn’t — work without a steady stream of tea. Andrews, her uniform covered in dust, was highly excited and blabbering like an idiot till Falls, exasperated, slapped her face, said:

  ‘Shut the fuck up. Jesus!’

  She did.

  Brant watching, gave a huge smile, said:

  ‘Welcome to the Met.’

  The bomb had been posted to the canteen and Gladys had left it until later. Roberts gathered his team and as they took their seats, the phone went. He picked up, heard the metallic voice:

  ‘Sorry to interrupt your tea but this was a little incentive to get you up to speed. Remember the deadline, and now you know how vulnerable you are.’

  Click.

  Roberts looked round the room, said:

  ‘The Super is going to throw a blue fit. Did anyone ever think to monitor the post?’

  Nobody had. They went back to assessing the results so far and concluded they had nothing. Later, the Bomb Squad reported that the bomb was the same as the previous two but had been designed to frighten rather than maim.

  Roberts sighed, said:

  ‘Like that’s going to save my ass.’

  When he got to finally see the Super, he was dreading the bollocking he knew was coming. Brown was having his afternoon tea, a Kimberley biscuit on the saucer. Roberts knew from horrendous experience that the Super dunked the biscuit and then strained it between his teeth, making loud slurping sounds as he did so. It was on a par with Imelda Marcos singing ‘Impossible Dream’ or William Shatner’s version of ‘Bridge Over Troubled Waters’. If anything, it probably had the edge in grotesqueness. To Roberts’ amazement, Brown was strangely subdued and the anticipated roaring might not be on the cards after all.

  Brown took ages to look up, then finally:

  ‘There have been some developments.’

  Roberts dared to hope, said:

  ‘There’s been a break in the case?’

  The Super shook his head, seemed weighed down with fatigue, said:

  ‘The bomb in the canteen has put a different complexion on the whole case.’

  Roberts got a real bad feeling: was he being replaced so soon? He said:

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes, in light of this… escalation, it has been decided to pay the ransom.’

  Roberts couldn’t believe his ears, said:

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding?’

  Brown’s head snapped round and he seemed to be coming out of his trance, said:

  ‘Don’t take a tone with me, laddie. You think I like this any better than you do? The powers that be want it to go away and, once everything calms down, then we can concentrate on catching them.’

  Roberts tried to stay controlled but said:

  ‘Sir, this is shite. It opens the way for every two-bit hustler to blackmail us. When word gets out we paid, we’re seriously compromised.’

  Brown focused and levelled his gaze on Roberts, said:

  ‘You have your orders, sonny.’

  Roberts
pushed down the number of replies he wanted to give; it even crossed his mind to resign, which would have been noble. He’d packed in all notions of that after his wife died. The chances were the resignation would be accepted and then what would he do? Return to drinking gut-rot red wine? The Super raised the biscuit, held it over the tea and said:

  ‘You’re to be the bagman.’

  A sad smile leaked from Roberts’ mouth, the Super caught it, asked:

  ‘What’s the joke, lad?’

  ‘Bagman, sir, that’s exactly the term the bomber used.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So it’s ironic that we are reduced to being messengers for these kind of thugs.’

  ‘Irony is not the business of the police.’

  ‘Maybe it should be, is that all… sir?’

  The biscuit was now immersed in the cup and Roberts had to move fast. Brown waved him away. Even outside the door, Roberts could hear the slurping begin. He wasn’t looking forward to informing the team that they were fucked. Plus, he had the money to arrange. Brant was leaning against the door of his office and asked:

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Worse than you can imagine.’

  Brant lit a cig, watched Roberts’ face for a moment, then said:

  ‘They’re going to pay?’

  Roberts thought he was all done with being surprised at Brant, asked:

  ‘How the hell did you know that?

  ‘No big deal, they’re cowardly fucks.’

  Roberts thought that Brant was taking it pretty well, said:

  ‘You’re taking it pretty well.’

  Brant shrugged, went:

  ‘Just means we’ll have added motivation to get the fucks.’

  Roberts wasn’t sure if he meant the bombers or the brass and with Brant you never could tell. Roberts said he’d better go get the money arranged and Brant said:

  ‘It’s a fine whack of cash. You think you could slide a few hundred aside, we could have a bit of a drink with it?’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  Brant’s smile was in place and he said:

  ‘Who’s going to notice a wedge off the top?’

  Roberts shook his head but he did actually think about it.

  Later in the day, a guy arrived from headquarters, dressed in a pinstripe suit and carrying a large briefcase. Roberts asked:

  ‘Are you a cop or a banker?’

  The man had yellow teeth, which spoiled the suit and clashed with his shining white shirt. He said:

  ‘Is that really relevant?

  ‘It is to me.’

  ‘I’ll need another witness while I count the money.’

  Roberts couldn’t believe his ears, asked:

  ‘You didn’t count it already?’

  The man regarded him coldly and Roberts summoned Brant, who gave the guy a slap on the back, said:

  ‘You’re doing God’s own work there, you know that?’

  The guy stared at Brant as if he was something he’d found on his shoe and asked:

  ‘And you are who, exactly?’

  Brant was delighted with him, answered:

  ‘Trouble.’

  He began to extract the piles of money and put a small calculator beside them. Then in a monotonous drone he began to count. Brant waited till the guy was halfway then touched his arm, asked:

  ‘Get you something?’

  The guy was spluttering with rage, said:

  ‘You made me lose my place, I’ll have to start over.’

  Roberts said nothing. The guy began again, this time, trying to keep an eye on Brant. Finally it was over and he handed a chit for Roberts to sign. When this was done, Brant asked:

  ‘You want to go get a beer or something?’

  The guy looked like he wanted to scream but in a patient voice he said:

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Brant turned to go, said:

  ‘Fine, but I thought if you’d a few drinks you wouldn’t take it so hard.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Brant indicated a pile of money that was still on the table, said:

  ‘You missed that lot or does it matter?’

  It mattered.

  I was for the first and probably last time in my life propositioned by a man.

  ‘Come and have a drink,’ he said.

  ‘Where do you suggest?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s a YMCA round the corner, and afterwards we could go to my place.’

  I began walking away fast. He ran after me.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘Aren’t you interested in queerness?’

  Edward Behr, Anyone Here Been Raped and Speaks English?

  11

  Angie was in the other room planning her great caper and Ray Cross was watching the Australian prison drama, Oz. He really enjoyed the brutality of the series. He’d done four years for a building society heist and his brother Jimmy had done two. He never intended returning to prison and he watched every jail drama to reinforce his conviction. He even watched Bad Girls and, of course, there was always the hope of a little lezzie action in that. The one sure thing you could say about Ray was he always had a drink on the go. This occasion it was Schnapps; Jimmy had boosted a Safeway and piled a lorry with every type of booze under the supermarket sun. The German spirit was going down easy and he had a nice buzz building. He stood up, stretched. Tall, he’d been told many times of his resemblance to the actor James Woods, and it made him feel good. JW was your stone psycho. Ray had Salvador on vid. But his all-time favourite was The Onion Field, where Woods played the cop-killer who, in the nick, manipulated all around him. It was the sense of total danger that Woods emanated. Ray worked on his mannerisms and pretended to be surprised when people remarked on them.

  He was wearing a T-shirt with the logo:

  Pog Mo Thoin

  It had been given to him by a crazy Irish girl he’d been seeing. He had to let her go when she set fire to their gaff for the second time. It meant giving her a few slaps but his heart hadn’t been in it. Ray felt that as Jimmy Woods had been through the mill with Sean Young, he too had to earn his spurs with crazies. In south-east London, they were easy to find. It was months later that he discovered the logo meant ‘kiss my ass’. And he’d worn it ever since. Angie had tried to smarten him up, bought a stack of Ralph Lauren shirts, which he put in the Oxfam bin. The one time he’d worn them, Jimmy had said:

  ‘You look like a pooftah.’

  Gave Jimmy a hard slap to the side of the head. He’d been looking out for his brother all his life. Jimmy was a bit slow; he didn’t seem to be on the same wavelength as the rest of the world and responded with a simplicity to most things. Then, in prison, he became obsessed with weights and bodybuilding and with the increased muscles he developed a sly confidence. It came from knowing that people were afraid of him. Ray was the first to exploit this new development and used him as an enforcer. Jimmy was impervious to pain and, short of shooting the fucker, he wouldn’t go down. After Ray’s release they’d gotten the Mews place and begun a spree of petty larceny and mild intimidation. They hadn’t any huge ambition and, so long as they had beer money and some dope, they were reasonably content with their lot.

  All that had changed the night they went to the strip club. Ray was hoping to exert some pressure on the manager when Angie came on the stage. The brothers watched open-mouthed. She was the most beautiful thing they’d ever seen. It would probably have never moved from their distant admiration if a punter hadn’t begun hassling Angie. A bald, middle-aged git with an attitude, he was pinching her bottom and she wasn’t liking it. Jimmy had moved, grabbed the guy by the collar and smashed his head on the bar, twice. Angie was impressed and when Ray asked her if she’d like to have a drink after, she agreed. They’d ended up at their place and she gave Jimmy a hand job. Then Ray got to bed her and she’d never moved on.

  Slowly, she’d begun to organise their activities and the money began to roll in. Then Jimmy had found the
dynamite and the whole operation moved up a notch. Ray thought it was crazy but Angie had a way of persuading them.

  He said:

  ‘It’s fucked is what it is… you wanna know why?’

  She gave him the sensual smile that usually signalled she was about to throw a tantrum but he carried on, said:

  ‘See, it’s the ransom money, or the extortion or whatever; you can ask what you like but the fuck is trying to collect it. The nick is full of guys who got paid then got nicked. You hear what I’m saying?’

  Her tantrum had passed and she smiled, said:

  ‘I’ve been working on it, that’s why Jimmy has to go to work.’

  He shook his head, said:

  ‘Jimmy doesn’t work, okay.’

  She outlined the plan and Ray said:

  ‘Jimmy works.’

  Jimmy didn’t seem to mind and once they’d got him in place he actually liked the job, began to bring home stories about the guys at work. Ray suffered this nonsense for a few days then walloped Jimmy on the back of the head, said:

  ‘Enough with this citizen shit. You’re not some kind of moron who does nine to five, you’re a career criminal and once the deal goes down, you’re out of there.’

  Jimmy seemed hurt and asked if he could keep the uniform. Ray sighed, said, ‘Yeah, yeah, keep the fucking thing,’ like he gave a rats about that. Wanted to say if we pull this off, you can get a goddamn uniform made.

  Angie was into it and began to stroke Jimmy, asking,

  ‘So, the other guys, they like you, yeah?’

  Ray stormed out. Angie might be sex on wheels and smart as a whip but she could be a royal pain in the butt sometimes. He walked along the Balham High Road and stopped in a pub he hadn’t ever been in. Ordered a pint and took a seat. He was smoking Dunhill Luxury Length, the fancy red box you didn’t see much of any more. He and Jimmy had hit a van a few weeks back and had been smoking it large ever since. It had been a long time since he’d had to resort to roll-ups; those days seemed to be long gone. He kind of missed the stuff that went with rolling your own but felt he couldn’t really go back. Plus, Angie hated them and said they smacked of prison. Much as he liked Angie — she was the best woman he’d ever had — she was crazy; there was a wildness that got to be tiring. She burned brighter than anyone he’d ever known but he figured she was going to burn out fast and bring down all around her. Ray didn’t intend being part of that. Once they got the dosh, he’d have to seriously consider deep-sixing her, making sure she’d never return. It was a shame but the mad bitch would have to go.