by Ken Bruen
A White Arrest
( Inspector Brant - 1 )
Ken Bruen
Ken Bruen
A White Arrest
the pinnacle of a policeman’s career
— Sir Robert Peel
the big one cancels all the previous shit
— Detective Sergeant Brant
R and B they were called. If Chief Inspector Roberts was like the Rhythm, then Brant was the darkest Blues. Pig ignorant, more like, was also said. On Robert’s desk was a phone, a family photo, a bronze and wood scroll, which read:
On Easter Monday 1901, the Rev. James Charmers stepped ashore on Goaribari Island, off the Southern Coast of New Guinea, intent on converting the islanders. The Goas ran down to meet him, clubbed him senseless, then they cut him into small pieces, boiled him and ate him that afternoon.
It was all you needed to know for police work, he said.
WPC Falls contemplated the sugared doughnut. It sat like a fat reprimand next to her coffee. Another WPC joined her, said: ‘Now, that’s temptation.’
‘Hiya, Rosie.’
‘Hiya — so, are you going to eat it?’
She didn’t know, said: ‘I dunno.’
Falls was the wet dream of the nick. Leastways, she hoped she was. A little over 5’ 6”, she was the loaded side of plump, but it suited her. Seeing her, the adjectives of ravishment sprang to mind: lush, ripe, buxom, available. The last in hopeful neon.
She gave a low laugh, lewd and knowing.
Rosie said: ‘What?’
‘You know Andrews?’
‘From Brixton nick?’
‘Yeah, him. I gave him the old con last night — you know the shit men believe.’
Rosie laughed, asked:
‘Not the “Sex has to be spiritual for a woman, she can’t just fuck and fly”?’
Falls was laughing out loud, into it now, the story carrying her.
‘Yeah, I explained how we have to be emotionally involved. The dim sod went for it completely.’
She took another wedge of the doughnut, let her eyes dance with sugared delight and went for the kill:
‘Worse — he believed me when I said size doesn’t matter.’
Rosie was trying not to laugh too loud. In a canteen full of men, women’s laughter was a downright threat. She held up her thumb and index finger, measuring off a quarter inch, asked: ‘Look familiar?’
Falls shrieked.
‘You had him too, wanton cow.’
‘Well, he was quick, I’ll say that for him.’
Falls shoved the remains of the doughnut to her, said: ‘Seeing as we’ve shared the little things…
WPC Falls had curly hair, cut short in almost dyke style. It emphasised her dark eyes. A snub nose gave her an appearance of eagerness and a thin mouth saved her from outright prettiness. Her legs were her worst feature and a constant bane. Suddenly serious, she said:
‘I was thirty-two years of age before I realised that when my dad said, “I’ll kill myself and the girl with me”, that it wasn’t love — just drink talk.’
‘Is he still alive, your dad?’
‘Some days, but never on weekends.’
‘Sounds like my Jack. Ever since he got laid off he’s been legless.’
‘The stronger sex, eh?’
‘So they think.’
Rosie had what are termed ‘grateful looks’. She was grateful if anybody looked. Few did, not even Jack.
Leroy Baker was a poor example of strength. As he did the fifth line of coke he roared: ‘Ar … gh … rr. Fuck!’
Then stomped his unlaced LA sneaker, adding: ‘That shit’s good.’
He surveyed his flat. Awash in everything that money could buy. Leroy had a mountain of cash. The drug business was flourishing and he felt a little tasting of the product couldn’t hurt, good for business in fact. That he was now hopelessly addicted got away from him.
He’d say: ‘Keeps me sharp — a man in de biz gotta stay focused.’
A pounding on his door failed to register at first. The cocaine pounding of his heart had deafened him. As the hinges gave way and the door moved, he started to pay attention. Then the door came in and four men charged into his domain. He had a vague impression of boiler suits and balaclavas but fixed on the bats — baseball bats.
It was the last focus he had.
Twenty minutes later he was dangling from a lamppost, his neck broken. A white placard round his neck proclaimed:
E IS ENOUGH
Leroy was the first.
Down the street, a lone LA sneaker gave witness to the direction from which he’d been dragged. As the ‘E’ story built, it would be alleged one of the gang whistled as he worked. The tune suggested was ‘Leaning on a Lamppost at the Corner of the Street’.
Like so much to come it was shrouded in wish fulfilment and revulsion — the two essentials for maximum publicity.
‘a blue collar soul’
Roberts picked up the phone, answered: ‘Chief Inspector.’ He never tired of the title.
‘John? John, is that you?’
‘Yes, dear.’
‘I must say you sound terribly formal, quite the man of importance.’
He tried to hold his temper, stared at the receiver, took a deep breath and asked: ‘Was there something?’
‘The dry-cleaning, can you pick it up?’
‘Pick it up yourself!’
And he put the phone down, lifted it up again and punched a digit.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I’ve just had a call from my wife.’
‘Oh sorry sir, she said it was urgent.’
‘Never put her through. Was I vague in my last request?’
‘Vague, sir?’
‘Did I lack some air of command? Did I perhaps leave a loophole of doubt that said, “Sometimes it’s OK to put the bitch through”?’
‘No, sir — sorry sir. Won’t happen again.’
‘Let’s not make too much of it. If it happens again, you’ll be bundling homeys on Railton Road for years to come. Now piss off.’
He moved from behind his desk and contemplated his reflection in a half mirror. A photo of former England cricket captain Mike Atherton in one corner with the caption:
IT’S NOT CRICKET
Roberts was sixty-two and at full stance he looked imposing. Recently he found it more difficult to maintain. A sag whispered at his shoulders. It whispered ‘old’.
His body was muscular but it took work. More than he wanted to give. A full head of hair was steel grey and he felt the lure of the Grecian alternative — but not yet. Brown eyes that were never gentle and a Roman nose. Daily he said, ‘I hate that fuckin’ nose.’ A headbutt from a drunk had pushed it off-centre to give the effect of a botched nose job. According to his wife, his mouth was unremarkable till he spoke, then it was ugly. He got perverse joy from that.
Now he hit the intercom, barked: ‘Get me Falls.’
‘Ahm…
‘Are you deaf?’
‘Sorry, sir. I’m not sure where she’s at.’
‘Where she’s at! What is this? A bloody commune? You’re a policeman, go and find her. Go and find her now and don’t ever let me hear that hippy shit again.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Five minutes later a knock and Falls entered, straightening her tunic, crumbs floating to the floor. They both watched the descent. He said:
‘Picking from a rich man’s platter perhaps?’
She smiled. ‘Hardly, sir.’
‘I have a job for you.’
‘Yes, sir?’
He rummaged through his desk, produced a few pink tickets, flipped them towards her.
She said, ‘Dry-cleaning tickets?’
‘Well identified;
collect them on your lunch hour, eh?’
She let them lie, said: ‘Hardly, sir — I mean, it’s not in my brief to be valet or something.’
He gave her a look of pure indignation.
‘Jeez, you don’t think I’ll collect then, do you? How would that look? Man of my rank poncing about a dry-cleaners?’
‘With all due respect, sir, I — ’
He cut her off.
‘If you want to stay on my good side, love, don’t bugger me about.’
She considered standing on her dignity, making a gesture for the sisterhood, telling him, with respect, to shove it, then thought, yeah sure.
And picked up the tickets, said: ‘I’ll need paying.’
‘Don’t we all, love — where’s Brant?’
Later: Roberts had just parked his car and was starting to walk when a man stepped out of the shadows. A big man. He bruised out of his track suit and all of it muscle.
He said: ‘I’m going to need your money, mate, and probably your watch if it’s not a piece of shit.’
Roberts, feeling so tired, said: ‘Would it help your decision to know I’m a copper?’
‘A bit, but not enough. I’ve been asking people for money all day, asking nice and they treated me like dirt. So, now it’s no more Mr Nice Guy. Hand it over, pal.’
‘Okay, as you can see, I’m no spring chicken, and fit? I’m fit for nowt, but I’ve a real mean streak. No doubt you’ll hurt me a lot but I promise you, I’ll hurt you fucking back.’
The man considered, stepped forward, then spat: ‘Ah bollocks, forget it. All right.’
‘Forget. No. I don’t think so. Get off my manor, pal, you’re too big to miss.’
After Roberts moved away, the man considered putting a brick through his windshield, or slash the tyres or some fuck. But that bastard would come after him. Oh yes, a relentless cold fuck. Best leave well enough alone.
He said: ‘You were lucky, mate.’
Who exactly he meant was unclear.
When Roberts got back home, he had to lean against the door. His legs turned to water and tiny tremors hit him. A voice asked: ‘Not having a turn are you, Dad?’
Sarah, his fifteen-year-old daughter, supposedly at boarding school, a very expensive one, in the coronary area. It didn’t so much drain his resources as blast a hole through them — wide and unstoppable. He tried for composure.
‘Whatcha doing home, not half term already?’
‘No. I got suspended.’
‘What? What on earth for? Got to get me a drink.’
He poured a sensible measure of Glenlivet, then added to it, took a heavy slug and glanced at his daughter. She was in that eternal moment of preciousness between girl and woman. She loved and loathed her dad in equal measure. He looked closer, said:
‘Good grief, are those hooks in your lips?’
‘It’s fashion, Dad.’
‘Bloody painful, I’d say. Is that why you’re home?’
‘Course not. Mum says not to tell you, I didn’t do nuffink.’
Roberts sighed: an ever-constant cloud of financial ruin hung over his head, just to teach her how to pronounce ‘nothing’. And she said it as if she’d submerged south of the river and never surfaced.
He picked up the phone while Sarah signalled ‘later’ and headed upstairs.
‘This is DI Roberts. Yeah, I’m home and a guy tried to mug me on my own doorstep. What? What is this? Did I apprehend him? Get me DS Brant and get a car over here to pick up this guy. He’s a huge white fella in a dirty green tracksuit. Let Brant deal with him. My address? You better be bloody joking, son.’ And he slammed the phone down.
As an earthquake of music began to throb from the roof, he muttered: ‘Right.’
Racing up the stairs, two at a time, like a demented thing: ‘Sarah! Sarah! What is that awful racket?’
‘It’s Encore Une Fois, Dad.’
‘Whatever it is, turn it down. Now!’
Sarah lay on her bed. Wondered, could she risk a toke? Better not, leastways till Mum got home.
‘He who hits first gets promoted’ (Detective Sergeant Brant)
Brant leant over the suspect, asked: ‘Have you ever had a puck in the throat?’ The suspect, a young white male, didn’t know the answer, but he knew the very question boded ill.
Brant put his hand to his forehead said: ‘Oh gosh, how unthinking of me. You probably don’t know what a puck is. It’s my Irish background, those words just hop in any old place. Let me enlighten you.’
The police constable standing by the door of the interview room shifted nervously. Brant knew and ignored him, said: ‘A puck is — ’ and lashed out with his closed fist to the man’s Adam’s apple. He went over backwards in his chair, clutching his throat. No sound other than the chair hitting.
Brant said: ‘That’s what it is. A demonstration is worth a hundred words, so my old mum always said — bless her.’
The man writhed on the floor as he fought to catch his breath. The constable made a move forward, said, ‘Really, sir, I — ’
‘Shut the fuck up.’ Brant righted the chair, said: ‘Take your time son, no hurry, no hurry at all. A few more pucks you’ll forget about time completely. But time out, let’s have a nice cup o’ tea, eh? Whatcha say to a brewski me oul’ china?’ Brant sat in the chair, took out a crumpled cigarette and lit it, said in a strangled voice: ‘Oh Jesus, these boys catch you in the throat — know what I mean?’ He took another lethal pull then asked: ‘Do you want to tell me why you raped the girl before the tea, or wait till after?’ Before, the man said.
Brant was like a pit-bull. You saw him and the word ‘pugnacious’ leapt to mind. It fitted. His hair was in galloping recession and what remained was cut to the skull. Dark eyes over a nose that had been broken at least twice. A full, sensual mouth that hinted at gentility if not gentleness. Neither applied. He was 5’ 8” and powerfully built. Not from the gym but rather from a smouldering rage. Over a drink he’d admit: ‘I was born angry and got worse.’
He’d achieved the rank of detective sergeant through sheer bloody-mindedness. It seemed unlikely he’d progress in the Metropolitan Police. It was anxious to shed its bully-boy image.
Special Branch had wooed him but he’d told them in a memorable memo to ‘Get fucked’. It made the Branch love him all the more. He was their kind of rough.
Outside the interview room the constable asked: ‘If I might have a word, sir.’
‘Make it snappy, boyo.’
‘I feel I must protest.’
Brant shot his hand out, grabbing the man’s testicles, growled: ‘Feel that! Get yourself a set of brass ones boyo, or you’ll be patrolling the Peckham Estates.’
Falls approached, said: ‘Ah. the hands-on approach.’
‘Whatcha want, Falls?’
‘Mr Roberts wants you.’
He released the constable, said: ‘Don’t ever interrupt my interrogation again. Got that, laddie?’
The C A club had no connection to the clothing shop and they certainly didn’t advertise. It stood for Certain Age, as in ‘women of a’. The women were of the age where they were certain what they wanted. And what they wanted was sex. No frills.
No hassle.
No complications.
Roberts’ wife was forty-six. According to the new Hollywood chick-flicks, a woman of forty-six had more hope of being killed by a psychopath than finding a new partner.
Her friend Penelope had shared this gem with her and was now saying: ‘Fiona, don’t you ever just want to get laid by a hunk and no complications?’
Fiona poured the coffee, laughed nervously. Emboldened, Penny urged: ‘Don’t you want to know if black guys are bigger?’
‘Good Lord, Penny!’
‘Course you do, especially when the only prick in your life is a real prick.’
‘He’s not so bad.’
‘He’s a pompous bastard. C’mon, it’s your birthday, let me treat you to the CA. You’ll get laid like you al
ways wanted and it won’t even cost you money. It’s my treat.’
Fiona had already decided but wanted to be coaxed, even lured, and asked: ‘Is it safe?’
‘Safe? You want safe, buy a vibrator. C’mon, live it up girl — men do it all the time, we’re only catching up.’
Fiona hesitated, then asked: ‘And the men, are they young?’
‘None over twenty and pecs to die for.’
‘OK then — should I bring anything?’
‘Your imagination. Let’s party!’
Brant didn’t knock, just strode into Roberts’ office.
‘You don’t knock?’
‘Gee, Guv, I was so keen to answer your summons, I clean forgot.’
‘Keen!’
‘Aye, keen as mustard, Guv.’
‘Don’t call me Guv, this isn’t The Sweeney.’
‘And you’re no Reagan, eh? Here, I’ve another McBain for you.’
He tossed a dog-eared book on to the desk. It looked like it had been chewed, laundered and beaten. Roberts didn’t touch it, said: ‘You found this in the toilet, that’s it?’
‘It’s his best yet. No one does the Police Procedural like Ed.’
Roberts leaned over to see the title. A food stain had obliterated that. At least he hoped it was food. He said: ‘You should support the home side, read Bill James, get the humorous take on policing.’
‘For humour, sir, I have you — my humour cup overflowed!’
The relationship twixt R and B always seemed a beat away from beating. You felt like they’d like nothing better than to get down and kick the living shit out of each other. Which had happened. The tension between them was the chemistry that glued. Co-dependency was another word for it.
The phone rang, postponing further needling.
Roberts snapped it and Brant heard: ‘What, a lamppost? Where? When? Jesus! Don’t friggin touch him. No! Don’t cut him down. Keep the press away. Oh shit. We’re on our way’ And he put the phone down.
Brant smiled, asked: ‘Trouble, Guv?’
‘A lynching. In Brixton.’
‘You’re kidding!’