A White Arrest ib-1

by Ken Bruen

  ‘Do I look like I’m bloody kidding? And they left a note.’

  ‘What? Like “Back at two”?’

  ‘How the hell do I know? Let’s go.’

  ‘Right, Guv.’

  ‘What did I tell you Brant, eh? Did I tell you not to bloody call me that?’

  Brant said: ‘Don’t forget McBain, we’ll need all the help we can get.’

  Roberts picked it up and, with a fine overhead lob, landed it in the dustbin and said: ‘Bingo.’

  ‘Homicide dicks’

  By the time Brant and Roberts arrived in Brixton a crowd had already gathered. The yellow police lines were being ignored. Roberts called to a uniformed sergeant, said: ‘Get those people back behind the lines.’

  ‘They won’t move, sir.’

  ‘Jesus, are you deaf? Make ’em.’

  The medical examiner had arrived and was gazing up at the dangling corpse with a look of near admiration.

  Roberts asked: ‘Whatcha think, doc?’

  ‘Drowning, I’d say.’

  Brant laughed out loud and got a dig from Roberts.

  The doctor said: ‘Unless you’ve got a ladder handy, I suggest you cut him down.’

  Roberts gave a grim smile, turned to Brant, said: ‘Your department, I think.’

  Brant grunted and summoned two constables. With complete awkwardness and much noise, they lifted him level with the corpse. A loud ‘boo’ came from the crowd, plus calls of:

  ‘Watch your wallet, mate.’

  ‘Give ’im a kiss, darling.’

  ‘What’s your game then?’

  When Brant finally got the noose free, the corpse sagged and took him down in a heap atop the constables. More roars from the crowd and a string of obscenities from Brant.

  Roberts said: ‘I think you’ve got him, men.’

  As Brant struggled to his feet, Roberts asked: ‘Any comments?’

  ‘Yeah, the fucker forgot to brush his teeth and I can guarantee he didn’t floss.’

  The cricket captain was tending his garden when Pandy came by. A local character, he was so called because of the amount of times he’d ridden in a police car. His shout had been: ‘It’s the police, gis a spin in de pandy.’ They did.

  Booze hadn’t as much turned his brain to mush as let it slowly erode. Norman had always been good to him, with cash, clothes, patience.

  When Pandy told the drinking school he knew the famous captain, they’d given him a good kicking. Years of Jack, meths, surgical spirit had bloated his face into a ruin that would have startled Richard Harris.

  He said: ‘Mornin’, Cap!’

  ‘Morning, Pandy. Need anything?’

  ‘I’ve an urge for the surge, a few bob for a can if you could?’ Once, Norman had seen him produce a startling white handkerchief for a crying woman. It was the gentleness, the almost shyness of how he’d offered it. Norman slipped the money over and Pandy, his eyes in a nine-yard stare, said:

  ‘I wasn’t always like this, Cap.’

  ‘I know, I know that.’

  ‘Went to AA once, real nice crowd, but the Jack had me then, they said I had to get a sponsor.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Sponsor, like a friend, you know, who’d look out for you.’

  ‘And did you get one?’

  Pandy gave a huge laugh, said in a cultured voice: ‘Whatcha fink, take a wild bloody guess.’

  Norman, fearful of further revelations, said: ‘I better get on.’

  ‘Cap?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Will… will youse be me sponsor?’

  ‘Ahm…

  ‘Won’t be a pest, Cap, it’ll be like before but just so I’d have one. I’d like to be able to say it, just once.’

  ‘Sure, I’d be privileged.’

  ‘Shake.’

  And he held out a hand ingrained with dirt beyond redemption. Norman didn’t hesitate, he took it.

  When Pandy had gone, Norman didn’t rush to the kitchen in search of carbolic soap. He continued to work in the garden, his heart a mix of wonder, pain and compassion.

  He’d be dead for weeks before his sponsor learnt the news.

  ‘You can’t just go round killing people, whenever the notion strikes you. It’s not feasible.’ Elisha Cook to Lawrence Tierney in Born to Kill

  Kevin, without knowing it, used an Ed McBain title. As he greeted the ‘E’ crew with ‘Hail, hail, the gang’s all here.’

  He was tripping out, had sampled some crack cocaine and gone into orbit, shouting: ‘I can see fucking Indians. And they’re all bus conductors.’

  He trailed off in a line of giggles. When the crew had taken their first victim, they had also ‘confiscated’: a) a mountain of dope; b) weapons; c) heavy cash.

  Kevin, sampling all these like a vulture on assignment, roared: ‘I love LA!’

  Albert, worried, had asked: ‘Is it dangerous?’ Meaning the drugs, and got a nasty clip round the earhole.

  ‘Dope is risky for those who’re fucked up to start. See me, it’s recreational, like, that’s why they call them that.’

  ‘Call them what?’

  He dealt Albert another clip and answered: ‘Recreational drugs, you moron. What is it, you gone deaf? Listen to that monkey’s shit. Wake up fella, it’s the nineties ending.’

  He set up another line of the white.

  Patrick Hamilton wrote: ‘Those whom God deserted are given a room and a gas fire in Earls Court.’

  If homelessness is the final rung of the downward spiral, then a bedsit may be the rehearsal for desperation. In a bedsit in Balham, a man carefully pinned a large poster of the England cricket team to his wall. He stood back and surveyed it, said:

  ‘To you who are about to die — here is my salute.’

  And he swallowed deep, then spat at the poster. As the saliva dribbled down the team, he half turned, then in one motion launched a knife with ferocity. It clattered against the wall, didn’t hold, fell into the line. He took a wild kick at it, screaming:

  ‘You useless piece of shit.’

  The knife had come from Man of War magazine. Monthly, it catered for would-be mercenaries, Tories and psychos. Their mail-order section featured all the weapons necessary for a minor bloodbath. The ‘throwing knife’ was guaranteed to hit and pierce with ‘deadly accuracy’. The man dropped to the floor and began his morning regime of harsh exercises, shouted:

  ‘Gimme one hundred, mister.’

  As he pumped, the letters on his right arm, burned tattoo-blue against the skin: SHANNON. Not his real name, but the character from Frederick Forsyth’s Dogs of War. Unlike the fictional character, he didn’t smoke, drink, drug. The demons in his mind provided all the stimulation he would ever need. Words hammered through his head as he pounded the floor:

  Gimmie a little country or gimmie rock ’n’ roll but launch me to Armageddon I will smote the heathers upon the playing fields of Eton and low I will lay their false Gods of sporting legend I will I will I am I am the fucking wrath of the nineties. The new age of devastation.

  ‘Setting a Tone’

  Brant and Roberts were sitting in the canteen. Not saying a whole lot. Both had newspapers, both tabloids. None of the Guardian liberal pose in here. In his office, Roberts kept the Telegraph on top, lest the brass look in.

  They were comfortable, at odd times sometimes were. Grunts of approval, decision, amazement. Of course the obligatory male cry had to be uttered periodically to emphasise there were no pooftahs here:

  ‘Fwor, look at the knockers on ’er.’

  ‘See this wanker? He ate the vicar’s dog.’

  Emboldened by the reassuring bonding of the sports page, Brant put his page down, had a look around, then took out his cigs, asked: ‘Mind if I do, Guv?’

  Roberts raised his eyebrows, said: ‘And what? You’ll refrain if I do mind?’

  Brant lit up, asked: ‘You packed ’em in, Guv. How long now?’

  ‘Five years, four weeks, two days and… Roberts looked at
his watch, ‘…Nine hours. More or less.’

  ‘Don’t miss ’em at all, eh?’

  ‘Never give ’em a moment’s thought.’

  Brant’s chest gave a rumble, phlegm screaming ‘OUT’ and he said: ‘You heard about the new kid. Tome?’

  ‘It’s Tone, but what?’

  ‘He answered a mugging call. An old-age pensioner was set upon by four kids. Took his pension. The usual shit. So, along comes the bold Tone, says: ‘Why didn’t you fight back?’

  Roberts laughed out loud, said: ‘He never!’

  ‘Straight up, Guv, the old boy says, “I’m eighty-six fugging years old, what am I gonna do, bite then with my false teeth?” Then, Tone asks if he got a description and the old boy says: “Yeah, they were in their teens with baseball caps and them hooded tops, like half a million other young thugs. But they used offensive language. Might that be a clue?”’

  Roberts went and got some more tea and two chocolate snack biscuits.

  Brant said: ‘Don’t wanna be funny, Guv, but I’d prefer coffee.’

  ‘Who can tell the difference? So, are you going to watch out for young Tone?’

  ‘You think I should?’

  ‘Yes. Yes I do.’

  ‘All righty then, we’ll make a fascist of him yet.’

  ‘That I don’t doubt.’

  ‘The King of thieves has come, call it stealing if you will but I say, it’s justice done. You have had your way, The Ragged Army’s calling time.’ Johnny Lamb

  After Brant had left Roberts returned to his paper. He wanted to read an interview with John Malkovich. He’d seen him give Clint Eastwood the run around in the late night movie, In the Line of Duty. And here’s what he read:

  ‘“What the public perceives is shit and what they think is vomit for the best part. The public doesn’t read Faulkner, it reads Danielle Steele. The movies they think are good I couldn’t even watch.’ — actor John Malkovich.”

  ‘Good Lord’, said Roberts, ‘The man has the soul of a copper, pure brass.’ There was a photo of the actor, shaved skull, predatory eyes, and Roberts thought: ‘You ugly bastard.’ Yet, as is the way of a loaded world, woman adored him. Unconsciously, Roberts’ hand ran over his head. The gesture brought no comfort. He remembered when he first courted Fiona — the sheer adrenaline rush of just being in her presence. He missed two people: a) the girl she was; b) the person she’d made him feel he might have been. A deep sigh escaped him.

  Back at the station, Roberts was summoned to the Chief Super’s office. Chief Superintendent Brown resembled a poor man’s Neil Kinnock. For a time he’d cultivated the image but as the winds of political change blew, and blew cold, he’d tried to bury it. His thinning black hair was dyed — and very badly. Men believe they can pop into Boots, buy the gear and do the job at home: presto! A fresh colour of youth and no one the wiser. Oh boy, even the postman knows. Women go to a salon, pay the odds and get it done professionally. The Chief’s latest colour was darker than a Tory soul. Roberts knocked, heard: ‘Enter.’ Thought: ‘Wanker.’

  Brown was gazing at his framed photos of famous batsmen, said: ‘Time-wasting by batsmen — like to explain that to me, laddie?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Very well, I’ll tell you: other than in exceptional circumstances, the batsman should always be ready to strike when the bowler is ready to start his run.’

  Then he waited. Roberts wasn’t sure if he required an ‘Oh, well done, sir!’ or not. He settled for not.

  Brown ummed and ah’d, then said: ‘The newspaper chappies have been on to me.’

  ‘About the hanging?’

  ‘What hanging?’

  Roberts explained and Brown shouted: ‘Hard not to approve eh, but hardly pc.’

  ‘No. I’m referring to some crackpot called the Umpire, who’s threatened to kill the cricket team.’

  Roberts smiled, said: ‘Then the bugger will have to stand inline.’

  Brown gave him the Kinnock look, all insulted dignity.

  ‘Really, Chief Inspector, that’s in appalling bad taste. Probably some nut-case, eh?’

  ‘Or a paki more like.’

  ‘Get on it, Roberts, toot-sweet.’

  Outside, Roberts muttered: ‘get on bloody what?’

  Brant was mid-joke: ‘So I asked her, can I have the last dance. She said: “You’re having it, mate.”’

  Loud guffaws from the assembled constabulary. Roberts barked: ‘Get me the current file on nutters.’

  As he strode past, Brant clicked his heels and gave a crisp Hitler salute. More guffaws.

  The CA Club was situated in Lower Belgravia. Vice thrives best in the centre. Ask Mark Thatcher. Inside it looked like a Heals catalogue. All soft furnishings, pastel colours. A woman approached Penny and Fiona. Dressed in what used to be optimistically called a ‘pants suit’, she was a healthy sixty. Everything had been lifted but was holding. It gave her face the immobile rictus of a death mask. She gushed:

  ‘My dears, welcome to Cora’s. To the CA.’

  Penny handed her a card, which she discreetly put away before suggesting: ‘Drinkees?’

  Fiona had an overpowering urge to shout: ‘Get real.’ Being married to a policeman did that. Penny said: ‘Pina Coladas.’

  ‘Oh dear, yes. Bravo.’ And she took off. Fiona said: ‘Where is everybody?’

  ‘Fucking.’

  Cora reappeared, followed by two young men. They looked like Boyzone wannabies. Cora placed the drinks on a table with a catalogue, said:

  ‘Enjoy, mon cheries.’

  The men stood smiling. Fiona looked at Penny, said: ‘Oh God, I hope they’re not going to sing.’

  Penny was flicking through the catalogues. Page on page of guys, all nationalities and all young.

  Fiona lifted her drink, said: ‘I never know, do you eat or drink these?’

  Penny said to the men: ‘I’d like to book Sandy,’ then nudged Fiona: ‘C’mon girl. Pick.’

  Fiona tried to concentrate. An entry looked like this:

  Photo (some gorgeous hunk)

  Name:

  Vital Stats:

  Age: (all 19/20)

  Hobbies: (they all hang-glided, skied and squashed)

  Fiona had a vision of the sky over Westminster, near black with gliding Sandys and all with the killer smile. She said: ‘Jeez, I can’t decide, I mean… are they real?’

  Penny, impatient, said: ‘I’m getting itchy, twitchy, and bitchy — here, take Jason, he’s a good hors d’oeuvre.’

  ‘Will I have to talk to him?’

  Penny touched her hand: ‘Honey, we ain’t here to talk.’

  Basic survival: ‘Never trust anyone who puts Very before Beautiful’ Phyl Kennedy

  The England wicket-keeper, Anthony Heaton, was a rarity in sport. A classical scholar, he believed he had the ear of the common people. In private moments, he’d listen to ‘Working Class Hero’ and smile smugly.

  As part of his public bonding, he frequently rode the tube. But the Northern Line will test the very best of men. As he headed down the non-functional Oval escalator, he whispered:

  ‘Rudis indegestaque moles’ — ‘I’d hoped for something better.’

  On the platform, he watched a nun pacing. Steeped in the mystique of Brideshead Revisited, he was fascinated by Catholicism. At college he had been described as ‘Anthony Blythe with focus’. He thought their rituals very beautiful. Now the nun made a second sweep of the platform, not glancing at the destinations board, which read:

  Morden 3 min Kennington 4 min

  Then he saw what she was casing, the chocolate machine. Anthony could quote: ‘Oh sweet temptation’ and ‘Thrice you shall betray me’.

  Now the nun stopped and rooted in her habit, her face flushed with expectation. Coins were ‘thunked’ in and a calculated selection made. Cadbury’s Turkish Delight. A classic. The handle was pulled and the nun moved in for the kill. Anthony watched her face, ‘un-lined, unblemished’. She could be sixteen or sixty.
Definitely from the Philippines, who were producing a bumper crop of nuns for the nineties.

  One of Anthony’s team-mates had said recently: ‘Hell is Imelda Marcos singing “Amazing Grace”.’

  No chocolate: nada, zip, tipota. The nun looked round in dismay. As the Americans say: ‘Who you gonna call?’

  The train could be heard approaching and Anthony could see tears in the nun’s eyes. He moved with the grace he kept for Lords, and one, two, open-palmed he hit the machine.

  The Turkish Delight popped out. With a flourish, he presented her with her prize. The nun was beaming, her face aglow, and she said: ‘God be praised.’

  He nodded gravely, added: ‘Veritas.’

  After Anthony Heaton’s murder, the nun would gaze at his photo in the paper and hope they’d given him the last rites. In her breviary, beside his snap, was a neatly folded chocolate wrapper, smooth as a silent prayer.

  David Eddings was one of the England batsmen. He was having a bad morning. His wife had issued an ultimatum.

  ‘You go on tour and I’m history.’

  He hadn’t handled it well, his reply being: ‘I’ll help you pack.’

  The toaster had short-circuited and there was no bloody orange. Losing it, he shouted: ‘Where’s my juice?’

  From upstairs the sound of slamming doors, suitcases, and: ‘That’s what the Daily Express asked too.’

  Said paper had been sniping at his age. The doorbell rang and he shouted again: ‘Are you going to get that?’

  ‘Well I doubt it will answer itself, darling.’

  A hiss underlined the endearment. A yeah, he’d definitely heard a sss… Striding to the door, muttering: ‘This flaming better be good.’

  He pulled it open. A postman, not their usual. Postbag held in front of his chest, he said: ‘Batsman leaving the field.’

  ‘What?’

  And coming out of the bag was a barrel of a gun. Now the postman intoned: ‘I am the Umpire. When a batsman has left the field or retired and is unable to return owing to illness or injury, he is to be recorded as “retired, not out”.’