by Ken Bruen
Tommy was checking his speech. Before the party finished, he’d say a few words.
He said to Mick, ‘There’s no jokes, it needs humour.’ Mick thought, You’re the fuckin’ joke, but said, ‘Maybe it’s best to play it straight.’
‘You think?’
‘Yeah, more dignity, know what I mean?’
‘I can do dignified.’
When the time came, all the lights went out. A lone spotlight lit the stage. Tommy strode out. Looking down the hall, he was blinded and could see nowt. He began, ‘Officers and ladies…
A single shot rang and a small hole appeared over his right eye.
He gave a tiny ‘Ah,’ and fell backward.
Who shot TL?
The suspects were:
Brant
Roberts
Tina Logan
gang rival(s).
Brant and Roberts had received a bollocking from the Super and he let them know they were high on the suspect list. Now, over coffee, Brant said, ‘Well, guv, I know I didn’t shoot him, did you?’
‘No … but I’m shedding no tears.’
‘Who do you think?’
‘I strongly suspect you.’
Brant laughed. ‘What about Tina, his wife?’
‘She could have got somebody to do it. Who’d blame her. He sure needed shooting.’
Brant stretched, said, ‘It was a great party, I really enjoyed it.’
‘God forbid you shouldn’t be happy.’
The desk sergeant appeared, said, ‘Brant, there’s a call for you, a Paul Johnson.’
‘I’m not here.’
‘He says it’s urgent.’
‘Tough.’
The sergeant went away muttering.
Roberts asked, ‘Who’s Paul Johnson?’
‘My ex-wife’s husband.’
‘Oh!’
‘Oh is bloody right.’
McDonald was in the Super’s office. No Masonic hand-shit this trip. It was ball-busting and vehement.
The Super said, ‘For heaven’s sake, you were on the door and you didn’t see the shooter?’
‘It was pandemonium, sir. People were panicked and stampeding. Plus, there’s a fire escape leading from the projection booth to the street.’
‘The papers are having a field day. We’ve got to find the shooter and fast.’
McDonald had thought it over and decided to go for broke, said, ‘I think I know who it is.’
‘What? Spit it out man.’
‘DS Brant, sir.’
The Super’s eyes bulged.
‘Are you mad?’
‘Sir, he’d do anything for DI Roberts. He was there and he is without conscience. It has to be him.’
‘Can you prove it.’
‘I will, sir. I guarantee it.’
Now he was way out on a limb. If he was wrong, he’d be out on his ass.
The Super said, ‘OK, keep it under your hat. I don’t need to spell it out if you’re right or if Brant gets wind of your claim.’
‘I’ll be discreet, sir.’
‘You better be.’
Outside the office, McDonald wiped his brow. Sarah was coming along the corridor, asked, ‘Are we set for this evening?’
‘What?’
‘My place, I’m cooking dinner for you.’
‘Oh yeah … right … sure.’
He thought ‘a leg over’ was exactly what he needed. Calm him down and let him focus on frying Brant’s ass.
Falls was in the canteen, listening to the various stories on the party. People were poring over the tabloids. Falls asked, ‘Can I see the paper?’
One came sailing over to land on the table. The front page had a large photo of Tommy Logan, stretched on the stage. A man was bending over him and there was something about the tilt of his head. She muttered, ‘Oh no.’
She got up, ran from the canteen, the paper in her hand. Near collided with Roberts who said, ‘Whoa, where’s the fire?’
She pushed the paper at Roberts, cried, ‘Who’s that?’
‘Tommy Logan-the late Tommy Logan.’ She tried to control her hysteria, said, ‘Not him, the other one.’
‘That’s Mick Ryan, his lieutenant, the next in line.’
‘Ryan?’
‘Yes, do you know him.’
She gazed at the paper before answering, ‘No, no, I don’t know him at all.’
When McDonald knocked on Sarah’s door, he was carrying flowers and chocolates. On heat, he was anticipating the ride of his life. That she was a snotty little cow only fuelled his excitement. She opened the door, wearing a white silk kimono. Her breasts were tantalisingly on display. He moved inside, pushed her against the wall, began to grope. A few minutes and he’d have popped.
Pushing him away, she said, ‘Let’s whet our appetites.’
A glass of whiskey was already poured. She asked, ‘Is Glenfiddich OK?’
‘Aye, lass.’
Truth to tell, he’d never had it. So if it tasted a tad off, he wouldn’t know. Put mustiness down to quality.
‘You sit here.’ And she manoeuvred him into an armchair.
‘More?’ she asked, coming with the bottle. As he held out his glass, he had to loosen his shirt, said, ‘Jeez, it’s hot in here.’
She smiled, poured, said, ‘Animal heat.’
The room was tilting and he thought, ‘I’m legless, how can I be so pissed.’
As he sank back into the armchair, he tried to focus on Sarah but he was seeing double. Odd thing was, he could have sworn that half of Sarah was Falls. What? He closed his eyes.
The doctor said, ‘I don’t quite know how you managed it but your penis is super-glued to your testicles.’
McDonald didn’t know what to say. He wanted to howl. He’d come to in his car with a bastard of a headache. Nothing of the evening could he remember. Bursting for a piss, he found his dick wouldn’t budge. Thus the doctor and his absolute mortification.
He strongly suspected the doctor was smirking. Worse, he had a nurse who was outright laughing. The doctor said, ‘Here’s what we’ll do to … ahm … release you, but I won’t lie, it’s going to be painful.’
It was.
McDonald howled for all he was worth.
Smoking
Brant was standing outside the station with Roberts. He was lighting one cigarette with the stub of another. Roberts said, ‘Those will kill you.’
Brant nodded but didn’t speak. A young constable came down the steps, said, ‘Sarge, there’s a call for you.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Ahm, oh yeah, Paul Johnson.’
‘I’m not here.’
‘What.’
‘Are yah deaf, I’m not available.’
‘Oh … right.’
A car pulled up at the kerb and Porter Nash got out. Both men watched him closely. He came right up to Brant, said, ‘I have something for you.’
‘For me?’
‘I caught two teenagers breaking into a car yesterday. They offered me a watch to let them slide.’
Here, Nash put his hand in his pocket, produced the Tag, continued, ‘I persuaded them to tell me where they got it.’ Brant looked at Nash and the moment hung. Then Nash said, ‘Seems they saw you drop it.’
Brant let out a deep breath, took the watch, said, ‘I owe you one.’
‘Glad to help.’
After Nash had gone, Roberts asked, ‘What just happened?’ But Brant was raging, spat, ‘I fuckin’ hate that.’
‘What?’
‘Him. You know, owing him a favour.’
‘I thought you’d be glad to get the Tag.’
‘They never forget, you know.’
‘Who?’
‘Queers … they hold it over you…
Roberts sighed, said, ‘You are a very twisted man … very.’
Mick Ryan knocked on Falls’ door. She opened it, said, ‘What do you want?’
‘To talk.’
‘I’m surprised you have time,
I mean aren’t you supposed to be running a crime empire.’
He looked round, said, ‘Please.’
She had been expecting a rage of homicidal proportions. But all she felt now was sad and tired, said, ‘Come in.’
For a moment they simply watched each other. He tried, ‘I dunno where to begin.’
‘The truth would be nice.’
‘I’m not going to apologise for who I am. But I’m truly sorry if you’ve been hurt.’
‘If!’
‘I’m getting out … like all the rest, I’ll go to the Costa.’
‘How nice.’
‘Come with me.’
She gave a bitter laugh, asked, ‘As what, yer au pair?’
‘You can have your own villa … it could work.’
Falls sat down, said, ‘I’m in deep shit over the rapist and you’re offering me a shag in Spain. No thanks.’
Ryan went to touch her but let his hand fall away, said, ‘Watch the papers on Saturday, it’s the least I can do.’
‘Oh, you’ve sold your story.’
He moved to the door, said, ‘Take care.’
She said nothing at all.
Brant was heading for the pub, asked Roberts, ‘Wanna pint, guv?’
‘Naw, I’m knackered.’
The Cricketers was quiet and Brant ordered a Stella. He was getting on the good side of that when a man came into the bar, looked around and headed his way.
He said, ‘DS Brant?’
Brant gave the man a hard look, asked, ‘Why?’
‘I went to the station and they said I might find you here.’
‘Helpful bastards, aren’t they?’
The man put out his hand, said, ‘I’m Paul Johnson.’
Brant ignored the hand, said, ‘And that’s supposed to tell me what?’
‘I’m married to your ex-wife.’
‘Oh.’
‘I wanted to thank you for extricating me from the shoplifting charge.’
Brant turned away. ‘No big deal, you needn’t have wasted the trip.’
But the man didn’t go and Brant let his testiness show, barked, ‘What?’
‘I think I can help you.’
‘Help me? And how the fuck could you help me?’
‘The Tommy Logan killing. I know who did it.’
Brant moved off his stool, took the man’s arm, said, ‘Let’s park it at the back.’
Moved to a table at the rear, Brant said, ‘Let’s hear it.’
‘A few weeks back, a man named Neville Smith cut up Tommy Logan in traffic. Later, Logan came to Smith’s house, terrorised him and his wife. Then, to complete the humiliation, Tommy Logan invited them to his party. Neville Smith is ex-army and a very proud man. His wife told Mary…
Brant wasn’t sure what to say, tried a gruff, ‘Thanks.’
It had to suffice. That evening Brant rang Roberts, laid out the story. Roberts listened without comment and Brant asked, ‘What will you do, guv?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Gets my vote.’
Two days later, Roberts got a package in the mail. No note or message, just a cassette tape. He read the title with a tight smile-Smokie’s Greatest Hits.
When Falls woke late on the Saturday morning, she went to get the paper before anything else. It was on Page four, a half column:
‘Man found naked and chained to a tree on Clapham Common. A notice round his neck read: ‘I AM THE COPYCAT RAPIST’. Police were issuing no statement until a full investigation could be launched.’
Falls looked up into a clear blue sky. Saw the trail of a plane, and didn’t expect it was heading for the Costa … But … you never could tell.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-f954d4-876d-2342-199a-9491-796b-debad6
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 24.12.2012
Created using: calibre 0.9.11, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Bruen, Ken
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