Calibre (14 page)

He couldn’t shut it, verbal diarrhoea poured out as the drug lashed through his system. He was off again:

‘See, ELIZABETH, I’ve a master plan, and I want you in on it, get you some kudos too, gonna like share.”

She sighed and the barmaid brought the drinks, a regular tonic, said:

‘Oops, I forgot you were watching your weight, maybe you’ll get away with one, live a little.’

Falls gave her the fish-eye and she took off. McDonald said:

‘Gee, I don’t think she likes you, how can that be?’

‘Maybe because she’s a stupid bitch.’

McDonald smiled, asked:

‘A touch of the green-eyed monster, eh?’

Falls was all out of patience, said:

‘Listen up, you’re way off the chart here.’

‘Alistair.’

‘What?’

‘My first name, it’s Alistair.’

Falls sighed, she of all people should know you can’t reason with a cokehead, stood up, said:

‘You’re seriously fucked. You get your act together, give me a call.’

He appeared stunned, whined:

You’re leaving, how can you be leaving, what about our sharing?’

Falls threw a poisonous glance at the barmaid, said:

‘Tell her, she’s interested.’

McDonald stood, went:

‘But my plan, it’s a winner.’

Falls shook her head and headed for the door. The barmaid shouted:

You come back soon, hear?’

I have since learned that in the terminology of the recovery movement this is called ‘being really fucked up.’

—John Straley,
The Curious Eat Themselves

ROBERTS WAS ASSIGNED forgery detail. He was standing before Brown, the Super, and moaned:

‘But, sir, isn’t this territory for the fraud squad?’ Brown was having his morning tea, replete with a digestive biscuit. This was a ritual of horrendous proportion. He dipped the biscuit in the tea, then let it dribble into his mouth, a feat that required contortions that would have put off a lesser man. And the slurping sounds that attended this were enough to warrant justifiable homicide. Usually he performed this act in private but if he wanted to annoy an officer, he allowed them to share the spectacle. He really wanted to annoy Roberts. He felt the chief inspector was getting uppity; since he’d solved so many cases, he’d developed an air of superiority. Time to let him know who had the real juice. Brown said:

‘There’s been a rash of dodgy fifty notes circulating, and the brass want this sorted quickly. Since you’re the whiz kid of the moment, I said you’d be glad to help. You are glad, aren’t you?’

Roberts tried to turn his eyes away from the dripping biscuit, knew he was snookered, but went:

‘I appreciate the vote of confidence, sir, but I hate to butt into another department’s area.’

Brown rolled the soggy biscuit round his gums, his mouth open, said:

‘You let me worry about that, that’s what command is all about, just clear this up pronto.’

Roberts sighed, said:

‘Yes, sir.’

He was almost out the door when Brown said:

‘Tell my secretary to bring me another biscuit, this one was stale.’

Roberts rang the Fraud Squad, knew one of their guys named Foster, asked:

‘Got a few minutes?’

Heard a low laugh and went:

‘What?’

Foster was an okay guy, Roberts had had the odd pint with him and they’d walked the beat in the old days. Foster said:

‘Wondered how long it would take you to call.’

Roberts was a bit put out, thought he’d have to go into a long spiel about meddling in their territory and he’d try not to step on anyone’s toes, the whole grovelling gig. But here the guy was, expecting him. What was that about? Foster said:

‘We’d a pool going here as to how long before you’d call, you just earned me a few quid.’

Roberts had found it cut the shit when you admitted you’d no idea what the hell was going on, so he said:

‘What the hell is going on?’

Foster was still chuckling, asked:

‘Dodgy fifties, am I right?’

‘Yes, normally your manor.’

Foster said something to the squad in the background and there was a loud round of applause, then:

‘Yeah, we handle bent currency every day, but when a certain Super gets almost arrested for passing a counterfeit note, you know he’s going to get personal.’

Roberts nearly laughed himself, asked:

‘Brown was burned?’

‘Oh yeah, in a swanky club in Mayfair. Let’s just say there were hostesses involved and no one spots funny money as fast as those girls.’

Roberts was delighted, anything that punctured that smugness of Brown’s was good.

Foster was saying:

‘So a chief inspector assigned to funny money, what a come-down.’

Roberts wasn’t offended, asked:

‘Tell me how to fix this?’

Foster stalled till Roberts asked:

‘Okay, what do you want?’

The old barter deal, scratch my back or paddle your own canoe. Foster said:

‘Be nice to have seats for the Test Series.’

Roberts groaned but in truth wasn’t fazed, Brant usually had some spare, so said:

‘That’s asking a lot.’

Foster knew the deal was done said:

‘And a case of some hooch, keep the nip out.’

‘Sure you don’t want a car to collect you?’

‘Great idea.’

Foster then told him to grab a guy named Fitz, hung out in East Lane Market, but to tread carefully, the guy was volatile. Roberts asked:

‘How careful are we talking here?’

‘Tool up and bring back-up.’

‘Enjoy the cricket.’

Roberts didn’t think he needed back-up for some dodgy money character. Nor did he want help. What he wanted was to clear this nonsense and in jig-time. He headed for the market. Maybe buy some designer shirts too, spruce up his image; he certainly wouldn’t be buying a suit. He figured he’d nail this fast, keep up his record of near full closure on all his duties. He was smiling as he thought of Brown, ogling a hostess, tipping her with a fifty, last of the big spenders, and then the consternation when the money was found to be bogus.

WHEN FALLS STORMED out of the Oval, leaving McDonald behind, she had a moment of total indecision. Her car was parked at the church and she debated calling a cab then said the hell with it, she’d drive. Got in the car, put the safety belt on, checked her rear mirror, then eased out into traffic. She was still seething with McDonald, the stupid bastard, carrying a piece, coked out of his tree, and mouthing off.

Then she was rear-ended.

Went:

‘The fuck is that…?’

Stopped the car, tore out, ready to cripple whoever hit her. A BMW was about a foot behind her, and a man got out, wearing a very expensive leather jacket, not unlike McDonald’s. She thought, what, there’s a goddam sale of the bloody things and the man went:

‘OH-MI-GOD, are you okay? I am so desperately sorry, all my fault… oh, you’re gorgeous.’

She didn’t know how to react, it had been so long since she’d gotten a compliment that she was completely thrown.
The anger she’d readied leaked away, even as she realized that he was probably snowing her. Who cared when he was as gorgeous as he was. It was a long time since Falls had laid eyes on a truly handsome man, she’d forgotten the sheer thrill of it. He had eyes as blue as Paul Newman’s and do they come any bluer? The guy’s hair was dark brown, tossed in that way that costs a fortune. You pay the stylist a ransom to make you look like you ran your fingers through it, as if you couldn’t be bothered. She wanted to reach out and touch it. He had a square jaw, wide mouth, and he was tall, with a slender build. His voice was deep, and clichéd though it was, he sounded like he was sincere. Now he said:

‘Here’s my card, my insurance will cover it, but might I be totally reckless…’

Here he paused, gave a self-conscious laugh, added:

‘Good Lord, I’ve been reckless enough with my driving, but may I go for broke and invite you to a little dinner?’

The mood of madness seemed to envelope them, on one of the busiest routes in Southeast London. As drivers honked furiously he had her answer:

‘Couldn’t I have a big dinner?’

Signed, sealed, and delivered.

She parked her car, and he said:

‘Give me your keys and your address. I’ll have one of my staff bring it for repairs and have it outside your door in the morning. How would that be?’

Staff!

Better and better.

She wanted to roar:

‘That would be fucking wonderful, you’re wonderful, shit, life is a cabaret.’

And then she was in the front seat of his car, and they were en route to eat. She thought:

‘Am I stark raving bonkers? He could be a serial killer and here I am, along for the slaughter, like a teenager.’

It gave her a delicious thrill. She hadn’t been out on the edge for so long, it was a rush of almost cocaine level. He said:

‘I’m Don Keaton, and forgive me for not shaking hands but I think I’ve had enough road accidents for one night.’

She clocked his hands, no wedding band, not that that meant a whole lot these days but it was a start. And his hands had a light tan, and looked strong, long fingers like an artist. She tried not to gush as she said:

‘I’m Elizabeth Falls.’

Another first, she almost never gave her Christian name. He asked:

‘Elizabeth, you like Italian?’

She’d have eaten vegetarian, said:

‘Love it.’

He smiled over at her, said:

‘I think you and I are going to get on good.’

She was already wondering if the sheets on her bed were clean. Wanted to say:

‘Don, you just scored, babe.’

After years of trauma, shitty luck, murderous experiences, here was the lottery all in one. He said:

‘I’ve an admission to make, Elizabeth.’

She prayed to every saint she’d ever heard of:

Don’t, for the love of all that’s holy, don’t let him be gay.

He said:

‘I don’t know any black people.’

And looked ashamed. She wanted to hug him, said:

‘I’ll be all the black you need.’

The restaurant was in Kennington, and the maitre’d greeted Don by name. When they were seated, he asked:

‘The usual dry martini?’

Don looked at Falls who nodded and another waiter brought massive menus. Falls asked:

‘Will you order for us?’

He did, a blaze of spaghetti alla chitarra, linguine, garganelli, taglierini, fusilli, and a whole pile of stuff she’d never heard of.

Don said:

‘The house wine is especially good, or do you want to see the wine list?’

She didn’t.

They ate like vultures, greasy, uncouth, and with passion. Half-way through, suffused with wine, he said:

‘You eat like an Italian.’

She shook her head, said:

‘No, like a person who’d been reared with hunger.’

It was the best night of her life. Don was a stockbroker and she asked:

‘You mean like rich.’

He nodded and asked:

‘And what about you, what do you do, Elizabeth?’

That moment.

Truth or dare?

Most times, she mentioned it, it distorted the balance, guys either got off on it, a weird gig about shagging a cop, a party dazzler, as:

‘This is my black girlfriend, she’s a cop.’

And the resultant queries, have you ever shot anyone or worse, the boy’s own:

‘Show me your truncheon.’

Or they got scared, took off. Mostly they took off. So she was silent for a second and he stared at her then she thought:

It’s a magical night, go for broke.

Levelled her gaze, said:

‘I’m a policewoman.’

He never faltered, straight out:

‘That’s wonderful, we need people like you.’

And so the evening of alchemy continued, she could do no wrong. Went back to his penthouse… yes, a penthouse on Mayfair, and fucked like demons. She had to put her hand on his chest, say:

‘Whoa, let me catch a breath here.’

Her pleasure was his primary concern, and when did that happen? In the morning he drove her home, said:

‘I might be falling in love with you, Elizabeth.’

She fell into her own bed, muttering: