A White Arrest ib-1

by Ken Bruen

  And he shot David Eddings in the face.

  Weights…

  When the call on the shooting came through, Brant was, as usual, missing. He’d left his bleeper on the desk. There it shrilled till a passing sergeant dropped it in the bin.

  Brant was in the canteen, smoking a Player’s Weight. These were only available in a tobacconist off Bond Street, on a shelf with Sobranies, Woodbines and snuff: the forgotten stimulants of a Jack the Ripper-era London. Brant had an arrangement with the owner — ‘I’ll keep an eye on the premises.’ There had been five break-ins since his pledge. Unfazed, he asked: ‘Did they get my Weights?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘See: no taste, no worries.’

  He took a deep drag now. As the powerful nicotine blasted across his lungs, he gasped: ‘Jaysus.’

  A radio was blaring Michael Bolton and he muttered: ‘Shut up, yah whining wanker — put a bloody sock in it.’ And chanced another draw of the cigarette. In unison, if not in harmony, a WPC gave a series of short, sharp coughs. Brant’s head came up like a setter.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘S-sorry sarge, the WPC stammered, ‘I’ve got a strep throat — nothing will shift it.’

  He gave a professional smile. It’s in the manual and has absolutely no relation to warmth. He said: ‘There is one sure cure.’

  The WPC was surprised. New to the force, she’d heard he was an animal but maybe she’d be the very person to bring out his feminine side. Show he was gentle, caring and compassionate and hey — he wasn’t at all bad looking — a bit rough but she could change that. Encouraged, she asked: ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘C-men.’

  ‘C-what?’

  ‘C-men. It’s got to be delivered orally. I’m off at four, I could come round, let you have it.’

  A moment before it clicked. As the words took shape on her lips, she felt bile in her stomach. Jumping to her feet she said: ‘You… animal!’ And ran out, leaving three-quarters of her apple danish. He reached over, broke a wedge off and popped it in his mouth, went ‘mmm,’ and muttered: ‘Women? Go figure.’

  The duty sergeant put his head round the door and said: ‘Brant, all hell’s broken loose, better get outta here.’

  ‘Another hanging, I hope.’ He snatched up the remains of the danish and between bites managed to hum a bar of Michael Bolton.

  The fucking rooms at the CA were a rampage of luxury: Wet bar, silk sheets, soft to softest furnishings. Jason was twelve, or so it seemed to Fiona. But the body was a healthy twentysomething. He’d lightly oiled his torso and it made his tan glow. He was dressed only in black shiny briefs. Fiona couldn’t keep her eyes off it. She had a variety of witty lines to break the ice but they translated as ‘ah.’ Jason smiled — teeth that shouted ‘capped glory’. He said: ‘What’s your pleasure?’

  Alas, he tried for husky but Peckham and tight undies played havoc. Fiona went up to him, said: ‘Shush. Shh… She put her hand in his knickers, gasped: ‘Oh God!’, fell to her knees and took him in her mouth. Then, breaking off, she said: ‘Jason, I want you to fuck me till I can’t walk but I don’t want you to speak, not now — not ever. Can you do that?’

  He could and he did.

  Her husband, meanwhile, was also being fucked, but over, by the Chief Super, the press and Mrs David Eddings.

  By the time Brant reached him, he was in the coronary zone, barked: ‘Been on vacation, have you?’

  ‘Sorry, Guv, was chasing down leads on the “E”.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘“E”, sir — E for enough. The hanging job, or did it slip your mind? You’ve a lot on, I suppose.’

  Through a barrage of obscenities, Roberts outlined the cricket murder. Brant looked thoughtful, then said: ‘Bit of a sticky wicket what?’

  ‘You know cricket?’

  ‘That’s it, Guv — only the one expression, I have to ration it.’

  ‘Well, you’re about to get an education. I shall personally ensure you get a crash course. Don’t the Irish play?’

  Brant tried to look deprived. It made him Satanic.

  ‘Just hurling I’m afraid.’

  ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘A cross between hockey and murder.’

  ‘Wonderful, I’ve a thick Paddy to help me. Get down to the incident room, it should be set up by now.’

  ‘And… er, where’s that, Guv?’

  ‘How the bloody hell do I know. Ask a policeman. If you can find one.’

  ‘Righty ho… I’m on it, fret not. McBain has me wise to procedural.’

  ‘Fuck McBain.’

  ‘As you wish, Guv.’

  Doggone!

  The Umpire had returned to Balham. Back and forth across his bedsit he roared: ‘Yes yes yes — we have begun!’ and punched the air. The gun was held tightly in his left hand. An impulse to blast holes in the wall was near overwhelming. He marched to the poster of the England team, stabbed his finger in Dave Edding’s face, asked: ‘Were you surprised, Batman? Were you fuckin’ stunned?’

  Looking around he found the knife on the floor and began to gouge out the face in the picture. Then he stood back, examined his handiwork, and in a singsong voice, trilled:

  ‘Eeny meeny miney mo

  Catch a cricketer by the toe,

  If he repents, let him go

  Or else the Umpire cuts him so.’

  He went to his bed and from underneath pulled a battered suitcase. Opening it he leafed through yellowing newspaper. Fragments of headlines registered briefly:

  SCHOOLBOY CRICKET SENSATION

  YOUNGEST EVER INTERNATIONAL

  BITTER END TO SCHOOLBOY’S DREAM

  He threw his head back and emitted a long cry of pure anguish. Unknowing, he shredded the frail papers as he lamented. Pieces of the articles fluttered briefly round his legs then settled in a mess about him. It appeared as if he’d been marooned in the remnants of an old wedding. The party had moved on but he’d become lost in the primary celebration. Not that he wouldn’t get to the feast; it was more… he didn’t realise he could have moved on.

  WPC Falls, by one of those meaningless coincidences, also lived in Balham. Not in a bedsit though. The house had been left to her by her mother. Her father, a perpetual drunk, made hazard raids on her time and decency. Both were running thin.

  She’d had a long day. It seemed a convention of lunatics had invaded their manor.

  Vigilantes, cricket executioners, and God only knew how many copycats plus false confessors. She went to the hi-fi, put the Cowboy Junkies on loud. The Trinity Session had been literally worn out. Now she was wearing out the Canadian live album. As she ran a bath, Mango Tameness’ enchanting voice began: ‘The song’s about a fucked-up world, but hey — a girl ain’t givin’ in.’ Oprah material, but when Mango sang it, just maybe there was a chance. In a weak moment she’d told a cop about her passion for the group. True to form, he zeroed in on prejudice: ‘Junkies! You’re listening to bloody dopers. Try Coldharbour Lane or Railton Road on Friday night.’

  And he’d ranted till she lied and said Dire Straits were what got her hot. It blew him off.

  Now as she sank into the bath, Mango was telling of the hunted. Out loud Falls said: ‘Sing it, sister.’

  The immediacy of the day began to fade. She’d had a call to a tower block near the Oval. Surname Point: the top of the building had come off in a big storm that snuck past Michael Fish — ‘no storm tonight,’ he forecasted, as the worst one in a hundred years came thundering down the pike. The call was to the thirteenth floor. Did the lifts work? Not that time. An irritated Falls finally made it to the scene. A crowd was gathered outside an open door. A huge black woman approached, asked: ‘Couldn’t they send a bloke then?’

  ‘I’m it.’

  ‘Should’ve sent a fella.’

  ‘Can we get to it?’

  ‘Blimey… ’ere look, they’ve sent a woman!’

  And a chorus of ‘Should’ve been a bloke’ rose from th
e assembled. Out of patience, Falls snapped: ‘What’s the bloody problem?’

  “Ere, don’t you get shifty with me, sis… blokes don’t get like that.’

  Falls forced her way through the crowd. Someone goosed her but she had to let it go. She strongly suspected the black woman.

  A neighbour’s dog had been a constant barker. Open all hours. Now the occupant, a white male in his fifties, had snatched the animal and was holding it over the balcony.

  Falls had eventually elicited his name: ‘Mr Prentiss. You don’t want to do this.’

  ‘Oh yes I do.’

  The assembly pitches in: ‘Drop the fucker, see if he bloody flies. Go on then, let ’im go.’

  Falls shouted: ‘Be quiet!’

  And was answered by: ‘Show us yer knickers.’ And quieter observations, such as: ‘She’s got the hump — throw her off ’n’ all.’

  Now Prentiss spoke again: ‘See, he’s not barking now. See? First time in six months he’s bloody shut it.’

  Falls had taken Psychology One and had done some classes in hostage negotiation. But not enough. She said: ‘We can work this out.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ And he let the dog go. The animal got in one last bark on his descent.

  After Falls had marched Prentiss down the stairs, all thirteen stories, someone said: ‘You know what I fink, love?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. They should have sent a bloke.’

  ‘No, you should’ve took the lift — it come back on while you were on the balcony.’

  Prentiss, wiping sweat from his face, said: ‘You sure you’re in the right career, darlin’?’

  Falls was too knackered to reply.

  Hand job

  When Roberts got to his home it was clocking midnight and he was clocking zero. The house was in Dulwich, the Knightsbridge of south-east London. This was always said with a straight face. Else how could you say it? Dulwichians liked to think they were but temporarily out of geographic whack. Others said out of their tree. Dulwichians felt they gave the rest of the south-east something to aspire to. And they did. The aspiration to break into their homes and hopefully kick the shit outta them as bonus.

  Hope is the drug. The mortgage was the payment from hell and Roberts carried it badly. In the sitting room, he sank into a leather chair that was designed for show. You moved — it cracked and ran friction on the arse. Course it cost a bundle, which was why he felt obliged to use it. Fiona Roberts wasn’t long home but she showered, put on a worn housecoat and hoped she looked… well, housewifey Jason had done as instructed and she could hardly walk. Composing herself, she got the expression fixed, the bored look of feigned interest. Looking as if she couldn’t quite remember his name and jeez, how much did she care? All this went right out the window when he said:

  ‘You look shagged.’

  Guilt cascaded over her and she floundered, tried: ‘What a thing to say to your wife, good Lord!’

  But he wasn’t even looking at her now, asked: ‘Pour us a scotch, love — I’m too whacked to wank.’

  Indignation rose, as did her voice: ‘How dare you use such language.’

  ‘What? What did I say?’

  ‘That you’re too tired to masturbate.’

  He laughed out loud, said: ‘Jeez, get a grip. Wag, I said, too tired to wag. You’ve bloody sex on the brain.’

  She sloshed whisky into a tumbler and pushed it to him. He said: ‘Thanks dear, so kind — like to hear about my day?’

  ‘I’m rather tired. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll turn in. Good night.’ And she was outta there. For a few moments he just sat, the whisky untouched in his hand. Then he chanced a large sip, let it settle and said: ‘A hand job would have been nice.’

  On his way home Brant stopped at an off-licence and picked up half a dozen Specials. The owner knew him and, not with affection, asked: ‘You want them on the slate, Mr Brant?’

  Brant gave his malevolent smile, tapped his pockets, said: ‘I find myself without the readies, Mr Patel. Wanna take a cheque?’

  They both had an insecure chuckle at the ludicrousness of such a gesture. As if on afterthought, Brant said: ‘Chuck some readies in there, I’ll get back to you on Friday — how would that be?’

  Patel turned to the cash register, raised his eyes to heaven and rang no sale. The continuing story with Brant, who’d planned it for his tombstone. Patel handed over the carrier bag: ‘A pony all right, Mr Brant?’

  ‘Lovely job and you’re a lovely fella. No further trouble with the NF, I trust?’

  ‘No, Mr Brant, all is rosy.’

  Brant nodded and turned to go, then: ‘By Jove Patel, I must say you’ve mastered the Queen’s tongue rather well, eh? They’d be impressed back in Calcutta.’

  Patel couldn’t quite let it go, said: ‘Mr Brant, Calcutta is in India. I am from Rawalpindi.’

  ‘Whatever.’ And he let his eyes flick across the price list, adding: ‘Thing is boyo, you keep charging like that you’ll be able to bring the cousins over from both places eh? You keep it in yer pants now, hear?’

  After he’d gone Patel slammed the counter in frustration. He considered again making the call to Scotland Yard.

  Brant lived in a council flat in Kennington. On the third floor, it was a one-bedroom basic unit. He kept it tidy in case he scored. One marriage behind him, he was out to nail anything that moved. Roberts’ wife was his current obsession. As a trophy fuck she couldn’t be bettered. Plus, as he said: ‘A pair of knockers on her like gazooms.’

  One wall was devoted entirely to books. All of Ed McBain, the 87th Precinct stories. Two shelves were given to the Matthew Hope series — a less successful enterprise for the said writer. The lower shelf was Evan Hunter, including The Blackboard Jungle.

  Brant liked to think he had thus the three faces of the author. The 87th’s went all the way back to the original Penguin editions. Brant kicked off his shoes, opened a Special and drank deep, gasped: ‘Bloody lovely, worth every penny.’ He settled in an armchair and begun to muse on a White Arrest. First he picked up the phone — get the priorities right.

  ‘Yo, Pizza Express, account number 936. Yeah, that’s it, bring me the pepperoni special. Sure, family size.’ And then he thought — go for it, do the line they use in every movie: ‘And hold the anchovies. Sure, before Tuesday. OK.’

  Back to his musing. There were no two ways about it:

  One: Roberts was fucked. Two: The station was fucked and he was poised to be the worst fucked of all. All his little perks, minor scams, interrogation techniques, his attitude, guaranteed he’d be shafted before the year was out. A grand sweep of the Met was coming and they were top of the list. Unless… Unless they pulled off the big one, the legendary White Arrest that every copper dreamed about. The veritable Oscar, the Nobel Prize of criminology. Like nailing the Yorkshire Ripper or finding shit-head Lucan. It would clear the books, put you on page one, get you on them chat shows. Have Littlejohn kiss yer arse, ah!

  He crushed the can in excitement. Jeez, even his missus would want back.

  The doorbell went, crushing his fantasy. A young kid with the pizza. He checked his order form: ‘Brant, right? Family size pepperoni?’

  ‘That’s it, boyo.’

  The list was rechecked and then the kid said: ‘It’s to go on a slab?’

  ‘Slate, son, but hey, I was all ready to pay. However, I will if they insist!’

  He took possession of the pizza. ‘Oh yeah, you deserve a tip don’t you?’

  ‘If you wish, mister.’

  ‘Don’t do it without condoms.’

  And he shut the door, waited. Moments later, a halfhearted kick hit the door. He was delighted. ‘Good lad, that’s the spirit — now clear off before I put my boot in yer hole.’

  After eating most of the meal, he had to open his trousers to breathe and could hardly get the beer down. He hit the remote just in time for The Simpsons. Later he’d catch Beavis and Butthead. He thought: ‘Top of the world, Ma.’

  ‘All
of us that started the game with a crooked cue… that wanted so much and got so little that meant so good and did so bad. All of us.’ Jim Thompson

  Jacko Mary was living proof of the adage ‘Never trust a man with two first names.’ He was a snitch. Not a very good one. But the vast machinery of policing needs a few key ingredients: a) Ignorance, b) Complicity, c) Poor wages, d) Snitches. Or so the received wisdom goes. He was what the Americans call ‘of challenged stature’. He was short. And he fuckin’ hated that. Roberts met him at the Hole in the Wall at Waterloo. The very walls here testified to serious, no-shit drinking. A toasted sandwich and a milk stout on the table before Jacko. He said: ‘Afternoon, Guv.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘You want anything, Guv?’

  ‘Information.’

  Jacko looked hurt, said: ‘Can’t we be civil?’

  ‘You’re a snitch, I’m a policemen, ain’t no civility there.’

  Roberts spoke more harshly than he felt, as he had affection for Jacko, not a huge liking, but in the ballpark. The snitch seemed different but Roberts couldn’t quite identify the reason, then he noticed a badge on his coat, two ribbons intertwined, one gold one pink.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Oh, it’s for people who’ve had cancer.’

  Too late, Roberts realised what was different. Jacko was renowned for his head of jet black hair. So dark it looked dyed. Now huge clumps were missing and Roberts wondered if he was losing his grip. Now he didn’t know what to say, said: ‘I dunno what to say.’

  Jacko touched the top of his head. ‘It’s coming out in clumps. Every time I comb it there’s more on the bleeding brush than on the head. It’s the chemo what does it.’

  ‘Ahm … lemmie get you a drink.’

  ‘Naw, won’t help me hair. The doctors say it’s non-invasive, know what it means?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Not spreading. It’s a nice expression, though, don’t you fink? Like cancer with a bit o’ manners.’