Calibre (9 page)

‘Ah, no, ah, I’m… late for the hairdressers…’

And she was gone. Lying through her fucking teeth. I know liars, having spent so much of my life practicing.

The diary, the journal, my goddam life is kept in a leather-bound volume that I bought on Charing Cross Road. Vellum parchment, the whole nine yards. Course, as a child of the movies, I’d laid a thin hair across the front, not that I for a moment thought anyone would have access, but I enjoyed the Bondish touch. The hair was gone, the book had been opened. She knew. I don’t know if she had time to read it all but enough to send her flying. Considered going after her, nailing her on the street and doing her. But that infringed my code, the bloody code. It would spoil the whole deal I’d been arranging and, worse, I’d be exposed. So straightaway, I got out of there and down to Waterloo, hired a locker, put the diary in. Sweat fairly running off me, went to a kiosk, ordered a large crushed OJ. The assistant tried to flirt with me, going:

‘Hot enough for you?’

I gave her the cold eye, said:

‘I’m spoken for.’

And fucked off out of there, back to the flat to await the arrival of the cops because they’d be coming. Went round the whole area, seeing if there was anything to connect me besides the word of a hooker. She’d tell, oh yeah, she’d tell, and some dumb flat-foot would come barging in, sniffing round, and if he had the manners of a pig, I couldn’t off him, least
not in the flat. Women, the jails are full of suckers who trusted them, and me… Me!… I’d all the angles covered. And to think I thought I could best a hooker.

Deep breaths, concentrate, get Zen-like, get real chilled, think think think.…

Brant had considered telling Roberts about his lead, but hey, he had the car-ring going and good results from that. Porter needed the gig, so he called him and they met at Clapham Common. Mandy’s place was near The Clapham Arms. Porter arrived wearing a black leather jacket, black pants. Brant was wearing his Driza-Bone. He had the Aussie hat but couldn’t quite bring himself to wear it. He said:

‘You look like a lethal priest.’

Porter didn’t think this was flattery but let it slide, and Brant filled him in on Caz’s story. Porter asked:

‘What do you think?’

‘Let’s go see. He usually is on the money’

The building was freshly painted and they rang the intercom, got buzzed in. Porter said:

‘Not very security conscious is she? I mean she just let us in.’

Brant gave him the look, said:

‘She’s a hooker, what do you expect?’

Her door was open and she was waiting, dressed to impress. Mini-skirt and off-the-shoulder flimsy top, her hip cocked. Brant thought:

Man, this is one ugly cow.

In her late twenties, Mandy was showing a lot of mileage, the eyes verging on fifty years and up. Her skin was bad and her face was too long, she didn’t have a feature you could appreciate. She said:

‘You got ID?’

They showed the warrant cards, and she invited them in. The flat was neat if cheap, lots of very bad paintings on the walls and well-worn furniture. She asked:

‘Get you guys a drink?’

She was relaxed, either she was used to cops, which came with the territory, or she was on something. They sat and Brant said:

‘You have some information on the “Manners” guy’

She smiled, sat, letting her skirt hike up. Porter she pegged as gay, but the other, the brutish one, he took an eyeful. She’d address him:

‘So, you sure I can’t get you something?’

She wet her lower lip, this usually got the Johns hot. Brant was staring, thinking she really was one ugly broad and did he detect an Irish accent? Asked:

You Irish?’

This delighted her, and she knew she’d selected the right cop to focus on, answered:

‘Would you like me to be, you like the colleens?’

Porter felt his patience going, snapped:

‘You have some information or not?’

She glared at him then back to Brant, said:

‘This punter, I’ve been doing him for three years, twice a week. He thinks we’re dating. I read this journal he keeps, fancy leather book, it said in there that he killed people.’

Porter felt his spirits rise, wondered if they could be that lucky, prompted:

‘And?’

She looked at him as if he was dense, said:

‘ “And!” I got the fuck out of there. If he’s killing people, I’m not hanging around. Anyway, he woke up.’

Brant felt his excitement take a dive, asked:

‘He knows you read the journal?’

She looked nervous, as if she’d messed up, then:

‘I don’t know for sure, but I got out of there, and he’s been ringing me like all the time. So I told Caz. He said I might get a reward.’

Porter tried to curb his anxiety, said:

‘Tell us about him, anything odd?’

Now she laughed, said:

‘Other than killing people? He’s a businessman, does some kind of figures or shit. He’s got lots of money, I know that.’

Brant smiled at her, asked:

‘He like anything kinky, he into that?’

Now she was offended:

‘I don’t do weirdos, no golden showers or any of that, not even whips. Course, a girl can always be open to suggestions from the right man.’

Porter said:

‘Here’s a suggestion. Give us his name and address, how does that work for you?’

She opened her mouth, looked at Brant, and made a silent miaow, was well pleased with this. Brant gave a noncommittal nod.

She rose slowly, moved to the window, and Porter was hoping maybe she’d jump. She lifted the curtain, said:

‘Right over there, see the large posh building, he lives on the ground floor. His name is Thomas Crew. He likes to watch me receive my customers.’

Brant moved over, gave her ass a quick pinch, keep her stupid, and asked:

‘You think he’s home now?’

She sighed, whether with delight from the pinch or exasperation was open to doubt. Did the American accent and badly:

‘Like I’m supposed to know?’

Brant smiled, said:

‘You should be an actress, got a real talent there.’

She moved a little closer to him, cops were good friends to have and this one had an animal allure, said:

You think a working girl isn’t acting like all the time.’

Porter near shouted:

‘This Thomas, he ever mention the name “Ford.” It mean anything to you?’

She really was cross at him, interrupting her moment with the animal, and said:

‘Duh, did I say his name was “Crew,” did I?’

Porter moved towards the door and Brant said:

‘You go ahead. I’ll join you in a moment.’

Porter felt his sugar-level dropping way down, and with diabetes that was serious. Anger and stress didn’t help the condition much either. Ten minutes before Brant appeared, and he had a shit-eating grin, Porter asked:

‘What?’

Brant fixed his pants, said:

‘For an ugly cunt, she sure has a lovely mouth, who’d have guessed.’

Took Porter a moment before the penny dropped and he asked, near shocked:

‘Oh, come on, you didn’t… Jesus, I mean… you wouldn’t?’

Brant gave him an innocent look, said:

‘Never look a gift hooker in the mouth.’

WPC Andrews couldn’t believe it, she was hooked up with McDonald. The desk sergeant glared at her, asked:

‘You got something on your mind, Constable?’

She shook her head, what could she say. McDonald didn’t look any happier, but these days he always looked like that. The sergeant said:

‘There’s been a complaint about noise in a flat on Cold-harbour Lane, the local residents are making waves. So get over there, sort it out.’

Andrews wanted to ask if it was a good idea to send two white cops to Brixton but followed McDonald as he headed out. As she struggled to keep up with the rapid pace he was setting, she asked:

‘Am, how’ve you been?’

He never looked at her, answered:

‘Fucking hunky-dory.’

And that nailed that.

Brixton, as usual, was teeming, and they got lots of snide remarks as they moved through the crowds. Coldharbour Lane was unusually quiet, and McDonald asked:

‘What’s the name?’

‘Name?’

‘Yeah, of the person we’re supposed to be cautioning.’

‘Oh.’

She had to consult her notebook, not easy at the pace he was maintaining, and he said:

‘Before the winter, yeah?’

‘Jamil, he’s in the ground-floor flat, Number 19.’

McDonald grinned, said:

‘Jamil, bet he votes Tory’

They banged at the door and no reply, so McDonald gave a look around, then put his boot to it and it gave way. Andrews said nothing, simply followed him inside. Music was blaring from the first flat on the ground floor and McDonald said:

‘Jamil, I presume.’

The door opened and a white woman came crashing out, screaming obscenities, stopped on seeing them, and went:

‘Oh…’

Andrews asked:

‘Is Mr Jamil at home?’

The woman stared at her as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing, then: ‘Mister… That is fucking priceless, but if you mean the no-good, lying, cheating bastard who think he’s Bob fucking Marley then yeah, Mister Jamil is home… and receiving guests.’

She gave a hysterical laugh. Andrews didn’t know who Bob Marley was, her tastes tended to Beyonce and J. Lo. The woman headed for the street, said:

‘Bust his ass good.’

McDonald said:

‘Sounds like grounds to enter.’

And went into the flat. Andrews felt this was definitely one of those times to call for back-up but followed anyway. The smell of weed hung in the air like cordite. African spears, shields, knives lined the walls. It took them a moment to see through the haze. Sitting in a low chair, back to the wall, was a bald man, black as coal, dressed in shorts only. His body was slick with oils. The music was deafening. He peered at them through slit eyes, said: ‘You muthahfuckahs want?’

McDonald moved to the music console, turned it off. The silence was total, then the man asked:

‘The fuck you doing, whitey?’

McDonald moved to the table, picked up a bag of weed, said:

‘You’re busted, bro.’

The man smiled, displaying gold teeth and a scarlet tongue. He looked at Andrews, said:

‘Yo a foxy bitch, yeah?’

Andrews tried to take charge, said:

‘If you’d care to accompany us to the station.’

Even McDonald turned to look at her. In the moment McDonald looked away, Jamil put his hands under the chair, produced a sawn-off, said:

‘Surprise.’

McDonald couldn’t believe this was happening again. He remembered the last time he’d stared into the barrel of a gun. The seconds before the guy pulled the trigger, sweat pouring off his face and the fucking awful pain. The months of rehabilitation and the fear, the sickening, creeping fear. His body started to shake, and Jamil said:

‘Y’all want to turn on my music again.’

McDonald turned to the console then ran for all he was worth, expecting shots in his back, and he was in the street, drenched in sweat but unhurt.

Jamil seemed stunned that the cop had legged it, not half as stunned as Andrews, whose jaw had literally fallen. Jamil smiled, those gold teeth gleaming, the barrels swinging to her midriff, said:

‘How dat song go?… “I Got You Babe.” ‘

Well, whenever it gets too bad, I just step out and kill a few people. I frig them to death with a barbed-wire cob I have. After that I feel fine
.

—Jim Thompson,
The Killer Inside Me

ROBERTS WAS THE first to arrive at Coldharbour Lane, followed by the Heavy Mob, the tooled-up gang, ready to shoot on sight, the street sealed off and all the preparations for a siege being set. McDonald, still sweating heavily, said to Roberts:

‘He’s got a sawn-off, Andrews is there with him.’

Roberts stared at him, smelling the stink of desperation, asked:

‘How’d you get to be out here?’

McDonald had been readying this since he’d called for back-up, said:

‘I ah… managed to distract him, then went for back-up.’

Roberts’s eyes, boring through him, asked:

‘Let me see if I get this right. He has a gun, you distract him, then you take off. How’d that help Andrews?’

McDonald wiped the sweat from his eyes, said:

‘It may not have been the best plan, but it was on the spur of the moment. I mean, better than him having two hostages, don’t you think?’