by Ken Bruen
He marched into the bedroom and Angie began to wring her hands in earnest.
Rachel, in a tangle of sheets, was sweating like a horse, vomit on the floor. Brant bent down, asked:
‘Karen?’
She managed a smile, asked:
‘Brant?’
‘Yeah, it’s me darlin’, what’s going on with you?’
She explained the twisted feeling in her gut, how she’d apparently recover and then be sick all over again, that she couldn’t get the smell of almonds out of her nostrils. Brant rubbed her forehead, asked:
‘And Angie, lemme guess, she’s been doing the meals?’
Karen struggled to sit up and croaked, said:
‘Yes, she insists I eat that shite, that muesli every morning.’
Brant, who’d been poisoned himself by a Spanish psycho, said:
‘We’re going to get you to the hospital. You’ll be fine.’
He came out, using his cellphone, saying:
‘Going to need an ambulance in jig time. Yeah, suspected poisoning and send a scene-of-crime team; we’re going to turn this place over.’
He looked at Porter, said:
‘Miss Prim here has been feeding arsenic or cyanide to her flatmate. I can never remember which one smells like almonds.’
He levelled his gaze at Angie, said:
‘You’re fucked, babe.’
Porter stood and moved right in front of her, asked:
‘The night Jimmy had his accident, where were you, sweetheart?’
Angie, smiling again, took another of Brant’s cigs, said:
‘You’re going to love this.’
In unison they answered:
‘Doubt it.’
Angie crossed her legs, letting them see lots of thigh, drew deep on the cig, said:
‘I was with a cop.’
Took them by surprise and they said nothing. She was enjoying this, gauged their reactions to her leg display and figured the polite guy was a fag but the other, he’d ride a camel. So she directed her comments at him, said:
‘I was with a cop in the biblical sense, you get my drift?’
They felt the initiative slipping away and Brant said:
‘Who was he?’
He was thinking, Fuck this, I’ll kill the asshole but tried to act like this wasn’t a big deal.
Angie was daring him now and asked:
‘What makes you think it was a he?’
Porter, before he could think spluttered:
‘What the hell does that mean?’
Now she turned those eyes on him, said:
‘I’d have thought you’d be sympathetic to same sex gigs. It was a sharp little dame named Falls. The black meat, it’s always a little exotic, don’t you think?’
Porter shook his head and went to see the state of Karen. Angie stared at Brant, said:
‘This is no big thing. She took some shit, thought it would bring her weight down. She’s a stripper, we’re not talking rocket scientist so how about you let it slide? I’ll give you a blow job like you’ve only ever dreamed about and that’s just the beginning… What do you say, fellah, you think you’d go for that?’
Brant seemed as if he was considering it and her hopes rose, then he shrugged, said:
‘Thing is, honey, I don’t do dykes.’
32
Ray brought his train ticket, the gun in a holdall. The ticket clerk had asked:
‘Return?’
‘Not on your bloody life.’
He settled in his seat and took out a Special Brew, feeling better already at the thought of getting back to London.
A guy in a suit, reading The Financial Times peered over the top of the paper, said:
‘Is it your intention to drink that?’
Ray gave him the look, said:
‘It’s my intention to come and sit with you, right up close, how would that be?’
The suit moved.
After a few cans, Ray was building a nice little buzz and went for a pee, locked the door and as he relieved himself, he went:
‘Ah.’
He checked his reflection and was shocked anew at the red hair, thinking, Fuck, geek city.
At Waterloo, there were lots of cops in evidence but he didn’t get more than a second glance. Found a B amp;B in Lower Marsh and paid a week in advance.
He went out that evening, the gun in the waistband of his jeans, it felt like reassurance. He headed for a stripclub in Clapham. Had a few brewskis and waited.
He was watching a girl named Donna; she couldn’t dance for shit but the punters — dazed from bad lighting, watered drinks and the seediness of the place — seemed to like her. When she took her break, he moved, joined her at her table, asked:
‘What do you say to a bottle of champers?’
She was about to say piss off but peered closely, went:
‘Ray?’
Donna had a serious nose-candy problem, the septum already in the final stages of disintegration. Her constant sniffle became irritating very fast. She wiped at her nostrils and Ray could see she was hurting. He laid a fat envelope on the table, said:
‘Enough there to keep you in blow for a month.’
Her hand reached out and he grabbed her wrist, asked:
‘Where’s Angie?’
‘You wouldn’t hurt her or anything, would you, Ray?’
‘Hey, Donna, she’s my old lady; I just want to get some readies to her.’
Donna couldn’t take her eyes off the envelope, tried hard and said:
‘I could deliver it for you.’
Now she got his smile and it wasn’t any relation of warmth. He tightened his grip on her wrist, said:
‘Not that I don’t trust you, doll, but I’d like to surprise her. You can understand that.’
She gave him Karen’s address and cautioned:
‘They’re looking everywhere for you. The filth say there’s good will for whoever gives you up.’
He leaned closer, whispered:
‘I’ve some nasty friends, anything happens to me, they come visit you, get my meaning?’
She attempted to act offended, said:
‘Jeez, Ray, you think I’d sell you out?’
He stood up and released her wrist, shoved the envelope across the table and said:
‘Blow hard.’
He was moving away from the table when she said:
‘Hey, what about the champagne?’
He laughed out loud.
And got to the place in time to see police and the ambulance, and Angie being shoved into the back of a cop car.
He said:
‘Ah girl, what have you been at now?’
He wasn’t unduly worried. If he knew his woman as well as he suspected, she’d be out on bail in no time.
33
Angie had been allowed her call and got hold of Ellen Dunne, the radical lawyer who liked nothing better than to bust the cops’ balls. As Angie sat in the interrogation room, Porter Nash said:
‘Do yourself a favour, spill the beans and we can cut you some slack.’
Angie yawned, said:
‘Fuck off.’
Outside the room, Roberts was listening to Brant’s account and asked:
‘Did you have a warrant, anything remotely like just cause or some frigging legal basis?’
Brant was offended, lit a cig and spat:
‘She’s dirty; at the very least we can have her for poisoning her mate.’
Roberts shook his head, said:
‘Look at her, she seem like she’s worried? She’ll claim the woman was self-administering. Strippers, they take all kinds of shit to clear their complexions, keep their weight down and, besides, she’s got the best defence. Why would she do it? The woman was helping her out: it doesn’t make sense and a judge would more than likely throw it out. Here’s Falls, she’s really fucked up this time.’
Falls was the worse for wear and when she heard Angie was using her as alibi, she felt her whole wor
ld collapse. Roberts came at her like a Rottweiler, demanding:
‘Tell me you weren’t with this Angie on the night Jimmy Cross got hot-wired.’
Falls looked to Brant for some signal but he was leaning against the wall, his eyes hard. She said:
‘I’m so sorry, sir.’
He exploded, his hands clenched, roared:
‘Jesus H Christ, how many times have Brant and I saved your ass, gone to bat for you against all the odds, how many bloody times?’
Before she could form a reply, he turned and went into the interview room. Brant lit a cig, blew smoke at the ceiling, said:
‘Me? I don’t give a toss what people do — shag sheep, who cares? And to tell you the truth, a little lezzie action, I can appreciate that, it’s so French. But fucking the enemy, that’s screwing the job, and without that, we’re really screwed, so if I were you, lady, I’d check the wanted ads for security guard placements.’
He pushed off from the wall and with, a rough gesture, ground the cig beneath his boot. Falls, who’d had to enlist his help so many times, felt total despair.
She tried:
‘Maybe the time-frame will help. Maybe she came to me after Jimmy got fried. Can we get the time of death?’
She knew how poor this was but hey, she was sinking and fas, t but had to try. He gave her the stare of total disinterest, the worst thing he could have done. In their time, he’d fixed those granite eyes on her with everything from hate to lust, amusement to disappointment and even on odd moments, pride, but never this. He said:
‘You’d have been drinking so how reliable are you? I’d pegged you for a lot of stuff, Falls, but a dyke, never.’
At that, the doors swung open and a heavy-set woman came striding in. Ellen Dunne, the darling of the Left and the scourge of the Met, looking something like an overweight Glenda Jackson. She had been courted by various parties but a political career would never be the fun that busting cops was. She was waving a newspaper and, fixing her gaze on Brant, said:
‘Seethe headline?’
Brant set his wolf smile, answered:
‘You know me, Ellen, I’m a pig. Would I have the sense to read papers?’
‘Let me read it for you, it’s so “up your street”… listen: “I’d like to say to all international drug dealers, if you’d be so kind as to stand up against that wall for a moment… Then I’d shout: ‘Ready, aim, fire!’.”‘
Brant shrugged and Ellen said:
‘This isn’t a tabloid hack but something written by Chief Constable Terry Grange. Is this your boys in blue? Where’s my client?’
Brant nodded towards the interview room and she pushed past.
Angie was sipping from a Diet Coke, Roberts standing near the window, Porter sitting opposite Angie.
Ellen gave them her gallows smile, said:
‘Might I have a moment to confer with my client?’
They moved to leave and Ellen looked closer at Porter, asked:
‘Hey, aren’t you Porter Nash?’
He stopped, said:
‘So?’
She studied him, then:
‘The fag? We were hoping you’d bring some light into this abyss but… You’re over-compensating. Think that if you’re more of a fascist than the rest of them, they’ll let you be one of the lads? Is that it?’
Porter was stung and snapped:
‘I expected more of you, Ms Dunne.’
Angie was enjoying this and delighted that Dunne was even better than she’d heard, said:
‘He wanted me to cop a plea.’
Ellen was still studying him, asked:
‘Didn’t you have a heart attack or something?’
Porter wanted to lash out, come up with some scathing put-down, but all he had was:
‘Like you care?’
Ellen turned to sit down, said:
‘I don’t.’
Twenty minutes later, Angie was cut loose and Ellen threatened:
‘We’ll sue your asses off.’
The assembled group — Brant, Falls, Roberts, steeped in their respective misery — were silent. Porter had disappeared.
After Angie had gone, Ellen’s arm protectively round her shoulder, Roberts turned to Falls, said:
‘Go home, you’re a complete liability. No doubt you’ll be bounced as soon as the hearing is done and you’re suspended without pay, got it?’
As Falls left the building, the desk sergeant whispered:
‘You let guys watch when you’re doing chicks? I could line up some gigs.’
She was too wretched to give him the finger.
Angie had gone to the pub, bought Ellen a large brandy and a vodka for herself.
Ellen cautioned:
‘Watch your step now. Those bastards have been badly humiliated, they’ll do anything to get you. Have you a place to stay?’
Angie, feeling powerful, adrenaline coursing through her, said:
‘I’m going home.’
‘Where’s home?’
‘The Mews, where I lived with Ray and his late brother.’
Ellen knocked back the brandy, took a deep breath, asked:
‘Is that wise? I mean, until they catch Ray.’
Angie was already thinking of the money and how it was time to get out, smiled, said:
‘Ray is a punk, hasn’t the bottle to return to London; he’ll be skulking in some hole till they come and waste his shit.’
They had another few drinks and Angie explained how, if Karen was to receive a few quid, she’d readily cop to have taken the poison herself. Ellen, watching Angie as she went through this, began to feel a chill.
In her thirty years of law, she’d encountered all kinds, some of the supposedly most dangerous people in the country and she’d never felt afraid, but now, as the essence of this woman began to permeate her senses, she felt a growing fear, a downright feeling that here was the real thing. Here was the so-called evil that psychologists claimed didn’t really exist.
Angie, in her elation, had let her true self emerge, her eyes no longer guarded, and what looked out was as old as time and primeval in its malevolence. Ellen had, without realising it, moved a few feet away, a voice in her head urging her to get the hell out of there. Angie, always sensitive to danger, put out her hand, touched Ellen’s wrist, asked:
‘You okay? You don’t look too good.’
‘The brandy. I’m not used to it on an empty stomach.’
She got up, left fast and felt she had indeed supped with the devil. She’d relegate this case to a junior.
The old man was up from his chair and looking at
Len with hot eyes.
‘You want to smack the shit out of me and end this?’ He said. ‘I wouldn’t even hit you back.’
Len sat at the table and watched his father put his hands in his back pockets and stand a minute as if something wild.
You’re not the man I was shit scared of. You can’t even stand up against a wind anymore.
Daniel Buckman, The Name of Rivers.
34
Angie went to the lock-up off Clapham Common first, failed to notice the various people following her. Inside, she packed the money into a suitcase and put her Browning automatic into her handbag. She had a passport and reckoned she was ready to roll. A fast visit to the Mews and she’d get ready to split.
She was feeling better than she ever had done, fooled ‘em all and got to stick it in their faces. The only minor flaw was Ray having the other half of the money, but maybe she’d get lucky and find some clue to its whereabouts at the Mews. Ray wasn’t the brightest and wouldn’t have exactly found a brilliant hiding place.
She got to the Mews by cab and enjoyed the cabbie trying to hit on her.
He said:
‘Honey, you look like a woman who’s got it all.’
She laughed and thought how right he was. The Mews was cold and in a mess. The cops had tossed it pretty good. She got some coffee going then added a little scotch, warm her up. She
kicked off her shoes and had barely taken a sip when the key went in the door and a ginger-haired guy walked in.
She did a double take and then:
‘Ray?’
He smiled, said:
‘You got me, babe.’
She looked at her handbag, the Browning inside it. Ray caught the look, said:
‘Got a little protection in there?’
And took the. 38 out of his jacket, levelled it, said:
‘Killing Jimmy, was that necessary?’
He shot her in the stomach and heard a voice say:
‘Drop the gun, shithead.’
Two cops came out of the bedroom. One looked ill, as if he’d recently been in hospital, the other looked like a hard fuck. They both had guns pointing at him. Ray tried to bring his round and the hard ass shot him in the head.
Porter Nash said:
‘Jeez, Brant, did you have to do that?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I did.’
Angie was moaning and Porter Nash got on the phone. Brant checked Ray was dead and then moved to Angie, said:
‘I’ll bet that hurts.’
She tried to spit but the pain was too great. She managed:
‘You executed him. I’ll tell my brief.’
Brant opened the suitcase, said:
‘Tell her about the extortion money, too. She’ll be interested in that.’
The ambulance took her away, handcuffed to the gurney. Porter Nash went along and she managed to call him various obscenities. He felt tired and his chest was paining him.
Brant was in the pub, downing doubles. The shot he’d fired was still amazing him. He’d meant to hit the fuck in the knee, to enable them to find out where the rest of the money was at. As he drained his drink, he relived the moment and said:
‘Like they say, there ain’t no coming back from a head wound.’
The barman, eyeing Brant’s glass, asked:
‘Another shot?’
Brant laughed out loud, said:
‘Nope, just needed the one.’
35
When the excitement died down and the various cops had moved away, Falls moved from her vigil. Shit, she was cold, had been standing under the trees opposite the Mews for hours. Had trailed Angie from the lock-up, watched her enter the house, then had been confused by a red-haired guy who followed shortly after… unsure as to what to do, she’d waited until she’d heard the shots, then she’d rushed over. Through a window she’d seen Brant and Porter, on top of the situation, if two bodies classed as ‘being on top’. Then she’d waited for hours as the ambulance came and a shitpile of blue.