Vixen (Inspector Brant) (10 page)

It had begun with him acting purely on instinct, playing a hunch. Jimmy was heavy on his mind and it was the first time Jimmy had been on his own. In the flat by himself, he was bound to panic. So, despite the resolution to stay apart until the storm had passed, Ray went on over.

He had a key, which Angie didn’t know about. There were a lot of things he didn’t tell the Vixen. As soon as he
opened the door, he knew it was bad. The smell of… what?… like singed leather or worse. He took a deep breath, said:

‘Jimmy, yo buddy, you okay? It’s Ray, where are you, pal?’

No answer.

The sitting room was in shadow and he pulled open the curtains, the light from the street illuminating the furniture. An empty bottle of champagne sat on the coffee table. Moet, the expensive one – as if Jimmy knew the frigging difference between that and cider. So, Angie had been around, the champers was like a signature.

This was bad.

Another smell, this one … weed. Jimmy liked a smoke. Silver paper on the floor pointed to the old nose candy: a real party all right. He nearly smiled at how he hadn’t been invited.

Ray walked slowly towards the bathroom, shoved the door open and gagged.

Fried fritters… that’s what he thought. Of all the mad, insane connections… What remained of Jimmy was burned to a cinder. Ray felt his stomach heave and then the vomit came gurgling up, like some minor
Exorcist
stunt. Flew like a projectile across the room. Sweat poured down his back and he felt his shirt drench in perspiration.

He heard a moaning and realised it was his own howl of anguish. Staggering out to the front room, he searched round, found a bottle of tequila – Jimmy always liked the odd ones – and tore off the cap, swallowed a huge gulp.
Stay or up chuck, the ballet in his stomach raged. Then the Mexican took over and he felt the warmth begin to caress his guts. Took another large wallop and lit a cig, the trembling passing. He whispered:

‘Jimmy… Jesus… Jimmy… oh, God.’

Returned to the bathroom and approached the thing in the bath. Saw the electric fire near Jimmy’s feet. He could see how it went. Angie, dressed to kill – yeah, in the fuckme heels, short skirt – making Jimmy delirious with sex. Teasing, booze, dope and into the bath, coaxing. Jimmy would have jumped out of a window for her. Then setting up the fire, cooing:

‘We don’t want you cold, do we, pet?’

He could see her, standing over the bath, Jimmy gasping from desire and her touching the rim of the fire, then:

SPLASH!

The ferocious crackling and twisting of the current as Jimmy was hot-wired. You ever got to ask Angie about it, she’d say:

‘Well, he went clean.’

His eyes lit on the box of Radox, half empty, a real Angie touch. He muttered:

‘Goodbye, buddy.’

Turned and got the hell out of there.

Went to Clapham, bought a gun. Just off the Common, a retired army guy, get you any hardware at short notice. He hadn’t been wild about the late-night roust, like Ray gave a fuck, and he said:

‘It’s a little short notice.’

Ray had met him in the nick, didn’t feel he had to explain and said:

‘I need something fast, you can do that or not?’

He did the all-important thing, he showed cash, a lot of it.

The guy could do it.

But was apologetic, said:

‘Thing is, like I said, short notice, all I got is some .38s, that do you?’

Ray liked the .38, it was handy; you could carry it without too much bulk and as he was familiar with it, he didn’t have to worry about dry firing. Lock and load. He asked:

‘Ammunition?’

Now the guy smiled, a rare sight. When a gun dealer does that, look behind you and often.

He asked:

‘Does a nigger like baseball caps?’

Ray gave a tight smile, nothing to do with humour but let the fuck know he’d heard that, like, a 1000 times and it was old then. He laid out a wedge and the guy went:

‘Uh huh…?’

Translation:
more.

Ray laid out a few extra and the guy went out and got the piece and a box of ammo, put the goods in a McDonald’s bag. Seeing Ray’s look, he said:

‘I like to give them the business.’

Ray took the bag, said:

‘They can’t make coffee for shit.’

The guy was shaking his head, replied:

‘It’s not the coffee, it’s the ambience… take a mo’ in the Walworth Road branch late on a Friday night, you’ll get my drift.’

Ray hadn’t slept. Holding the weapon in his hand, he paced all night, remembering moments with Jimmy. A feeling of total disbelief vying with raw rage, he tried to focus on where Angie would hole up and realised he knew very little about her, save she was a cold bitch.

A stone killer and what’s more, she had half the money – half Jimmy’s money.

Smoking a chain of Dunhills, chugging Special Brews until he was demented. Time to time, he’d pick up the .38, aim, shout obscenities. So it was when McDonald banged on the door. Ray, in a haze, opened and seeing the uniform, the gun was up and he was firing

What the fuck happened?

He stepped over the guy, ran for all he was worth.

BRANT AND ROBERTS hammered on Jimmy’s door and got the smell, nodded. Brant stepped back, raised his boot and gave a ferocious kick. The door came down without a whimper.

Roberts said:

‘Maybe we should have tooled up.’

Brant was on high alert, answered:

‘Too fucking late now.’

Went in low and fast, rolled on the floor and came up in a semi-crouch, said:

‘Police.’

Roberts was stunned, walked in, asked:

‘Where did you learn that shit?’

‘Saw it on NYPD Blue.’

Roberts could tell there was no one in the flat, no one
alive anyway. The stench was a familiar one, was all over bar the tagging. Brant headed for the bathroom, entered slowly, said:

‘Oh fuck, I think I found Jimmy.’

Together, they stared at the burned hunk and Brant indicated the electric fire, said:

‘Gee, how careless.’

Roberts said:

‘They took him out.’

‘They?’

Roberts was on his cellphone, calling an ambulance, scene of crime guys, the whole outfit.

Brant said:

‘I’m impressed.’

Roberts said:

‘I want this place gone over with a fine comb: fingerprints, the empty bottles out there, the lot. And get a crew over to his brother’s place, tell them to arm up.’

Brant was on his phone and shaking his head, went:

‘Too late. You’re not going to like this. Fuck, you are going to hate this.’

‘What?’

Brant fumbled for his cigs and for the first time ever, Roberts noticed a tremor in his hand, knew it had to be bad. Nothing shook Brant, not since he was indirectly responsible for the death of a young cop some years back. Brant moved past him, grabbed a bottle, looked disinterestedly at the label, tequila, shrugged and drank deep. Shuddered, said:

‘That stupid prick McDonald, he must have been listening to us, he decided to check out Ray alone and he got shot.’

‘Dead?’

‘As good as, could be a headshot.’

They knew how that went, you were fucked either way; never came back from the head stuff, not in any way worthwhile. Brant took another slug, offered the bottle. Roberts shook his head, said:

‘This is getting seriously fucked.’

In a little while the place was swarming with technicians, all of whom had watched too much
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
and acted accordingly. Roberts gave his instructions and moved outside with Brant, said:

‘Any word on Porter?’

‘Shit, I forgot all about the pooftah.’

Roberts gave him the look, said:

‘I thought you guys were friends.’

‘Yeah, so?’

‘So, how come you call him names?’

Brant, the tequila already showing in his eyes, said:

‘You should hear what I call you.’

FALLS FINALLY GOT to talk to Porter after the doctor had taken an inordinate amount of time with him. From the corridor, she could see them and, by Porter’s expression, it wasn’t good.

Porter’s father had completely ignored her. She wasn’t too pushed: bigotry was as familiar to Falls as egg and chips.

Then the doctor moved away and she approached. She hadn’t had time to bring anything and if she had, what could she have thought of to bring someone in Coronary Care? Porter looked awful, ashen… and all those tubes in his arms. She began:

‘You gave us some fright there.’

He sat up in the bed, stared at her, asked:

‘No grapes?’

‘Sour ones maybe?’

He smiled and she felt extraordinary relief. It was a long time since he’d done that, leastways for her. Not his fault, he’d tried everything to stay friends but with his promotion and the shit in her life, she had punished him. I mean, it’s what you do, you make the close ones pay for the grief you get, I mean… that’s how the world works, right?

She reached for his hand and asked:

‘How are you?’

‘Well, I was scared but that passed. I’m a cop, scared is what we know, so now it’s settled into serious anxiety.’

She knew that song, had tried to still it with buckets of coke and oceans of vodka. She squeezed his fingers and he gave a huge smile and, not for the first time, she wished he wasn’t gay. Then, with a rush, she recalled her night with Angie and thought, Maybe we’ve more in common now.

She moved her hand, fixed his hair and asked:

‘So, what’s the deal?’

He sighed and she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the reply but kept her face neutral and he said:

‘My heart is okay, thank God, but they were concerned about what caused the collapse. Asked a barrage of questions; worse than cops these guys and with the worst verdict in the wings, they have more juice than us. I said I’d been losing weight, had a constant dry mouth and seemed to spend my life going for a pee – it’s diabetes.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, bummer, right? You can have it for ages and not
know, then stress or some such will trigger it and I was going into insulin shock.’

Falls’ imagination conjured up needles and having to inject yourself daily, like some desperate junkie. He said:

‘It’s not so bad, eh? I mean, if my heart was fucked, I’d be, like, gone.’

She had to ask, so she did:

‘Are you going to have to… ahm, do the insulin gig… ?’

He seemed to lose focus for a moment, then:

‘There’s two types and I don’t know yet if I’m one or two. One is tablets, the other is shots.’

Shots. She’d only moments before heard about McDonald and hadn’t even allowed herself to digest that and she didn’t think it was the time to tell Porter.

She said:

‘Let’s root for the tablets, yeah?’

He pressed her hand and said:

‘Thanks for coming.’

Seemed like a window to mention the previous months so she tried:

‘I haven’t been, like, you know… very nice to you. I, ahm, I was not in the best of shape.’

Lame, it sounded so goddamn lame. He tried to wave it away but she had to push for herself too.

She went on:

‘I was a complete bitch. And… I’m sorry.’

He seemed embarrassed so she moved on, asked:

‘Need anything? Pyjamas, deodorant?’

His smile was returning and he said:

‘Yeah, a sweet guy.’

She was shaking her head:

‘No such thing.’

A nurse came to fluff his pillows and he asked:

‘What’s with the pillows? That’s the third time already.’

The nurse was unfazed, said:

‘It looks like we care.’

‘About the pillows?’

Falls looked at the nurse who raised her eyes to heaven and Falls said to Porter:

‘I think you’re on the mend.’

The nurse, with a concerned expression, asked:

‘Did you know that policeman who was shot?’

Falls sighed, and Porter sat up, alarm writ huge, asked:

‘What?’

Anyone could hang a man, and quite a few people
could pull a lever that released cyanide into an airtight
room. A fewer number could probably
electrocute a human; that was a job frequently
botched. The half-burned corpse still twitching,
requiring another thirty-second jolt of fourteen
hundred volts, the lights dim again in the prison
library… But hardly anyone outside the medical
profession could be found qualified to measure a
lethal dose of poison and neatly prepare a man for
the injection of it.
Jim Nisbet,
Lethal Injection.

ANGIE WAS FOND of poison. In the club, the girls kept a store for awkward punters. A guy got stroppy, he got a tiny amount in his drink, not enough to do serious damage but ensured he’d have stomach cramps from hell and the runs, plus maybe a jolly to the hospital. The cheap fucks, the ones that tipped like misers, they got a shot of it too. Some of the girls believed a tiny amount kept your weight down and aided the complexion; it’s not for nothing they’ve been called poisonous. Angie had helped herself to a wedge on leaving.

Now she was holed up with a stripper named Rachel in a studio rental off the Balham High Road. Rachel was a pain in the ass, always whining, checking the fridge and going:

‘Did you touch my Evian?’

And her low-fat yoghurt… God forbid you looked sideways at that shit. Angie wasn’t entirely sure but it did seem as if there was a pencil mark on the booze bottles. Rachel was a big girl, had been round the block a few times and was showing the mileage. She’d had her breasts inflated and was forever checking for droop. Angie thought she resembled Jordan’s mother but reassured her she was foxy. The rental seemed to shrink as the days passed – it had been a week since the copper got shot.

Rachel, looking at Angie, had asked as Ray’s photo flashed on the telly:

‘Hey, didn’t you hang with that guy?’

And got her first dose of arsenic.

What Rachel liked was to sit down for breakfast, the whole works. Little chintz tablecloth, a lone flower, grapefruit juice and muesli, decaffeinated coffee with low-fat milk. Angie went along with this crap as she needed the hideout.