Vixen (Inspector Brant) (2 page)

‘What was that about?’

Falls was opening peanuts, said:

‘He’s homophobic.’

‘Ah, come on, you’re saying he knows I’m gay?’

Falls eyed him and, with little affection, a shard of granite across her pupils, said:

‘Everybody knows.’

He let it slide. There’d been a time when he and Falls had been best mates. Almost from the off, they’d bonded, went dancing, drinking together. Then she’d bought into a shitpile of trouble. A skinhead she’d been friendly with was murdered and her life began to spiral. Porter’s promotion had sealed their separation. He was worried by the speed of her drinking. Her trouble with the booze had definitely worked against her attempt at sergeant. He asked:

‘How are you and Nelson doing?’

This was a detective from Vauxhall who’d saved Falls’ job then had begun a relationship with her. Porter had only met him a few times and found him to be aggressive and worse, dull. Vital qualifications for the Met. She signalled for another round then answered:

‘Nelson? Nelson is history.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She let her face show major surprise, gasped:

‘Oh, you knew him?’

‘Not really.’

Now her lip curled and she snarled:

‘Then why the fuck are you sorry? For all you know, I’m well shot of him.’

Porter stood up, shrugged his shoulders

‘I’ll leave you to it.’

A young cop came in, saw them and came over, said:

‘Sir, you’re wanted, it’s the bombing.’

Porter looked at Falls, asked:

‘Coming?’

‘I’m getting bombed here. You run along, do senior officer stuff.’

Some find themselves through joy, some through
suffering and some through toil. Johnny had till
now tried nothing but whiskey. A process that left
him feeling like somebody new every day.’

Nelson Algren,
The Man With The Golden Arm.

ANGIE JAMES WAS seriously deranged. She’d learnt that early and just as quickly had learnt to hide it. Took her a while to grasp that other people had a sense of right and wrong. Her radar operated on feeling good or feeling cheated. There was little in between. Imitation was her salvation, miming what others expressed honed her survival skills.

But at a cost.

Attempting to incinerate her family as a teenager got her a two-year spell in a psychiatric unit. The best two years she’d had as she’d discovered the power of sex.

And what a dizzying power it was.

Her face was pretty in an unremarkable way. Make-up made you notice. Long afternoons with fashion mags
taught her how to shape and hone her body to the level of desirability. Clothes added the rest. Going before the review board, she’d learnt enough to feed them the responses they wanted.

At the age of 28, she’d only made one serious error in the intervening years. One night in a pub, she’d opened a guys face – from the left eyebrow to the chin – with an open razor. Not because she was angry but from a vague interest in seeing his reaction. She did a year in Holloway where she seriously maimed a bull dyke.

For her time there, she was celling with a woman in her fifties named Beth, doing ten to fifteen for a string of post office heists. In a prison dispute Angie had waded in and saved her from a serious beating, purely out of boredom. Beth was grateful, lent her books, cosmetics, cigarettes. One stiflingly hot July day, she’d said:

‘Angie, you should be set up for life, you know that?’

Angie didn’t answer, busy with a
Cosmo
quiz.

‘I’m serious, hon, get yourself a stash, head for Florida, marry one of the rich fucks there, hump him to a heart attack.’

‘How do I get the stash?’

Beth was a bit drunk, on prison hooch. It tasted like rotgut but got you there and fast. She wanted Angie to have the dream she’d never achieved, said:

‘There’s only one sure crime, pays big with little risk and you do it right, you’re set.’

Angie had moved on to an article telling how to give better oral sex, asked:

‘What’s the crime?’

Beth took another swig of the booze, tried to focus, said:

‘Extortion.’

‘Yeah, and that works how?’

Beth had to lie down, the brew was packing a wallop like a baton. She completely lost her train of thought, was even finding it difficult to remember who the hell Angie was. But Angie was finally interested, pushed:

‘Come on, girl, what’s the deal?’

Gradually and painfully, she learnt the master plan. Bomb a building then demand a payment not to bomb any more. Angie sneered:

‘That’s it, that’s the answer? It’s fucked is what it is.’

Beth had passed out.

Six months after Angie’s release, Beth was blinded by a dodgy batch of brew. Even if Angie had written, as she’d promised she’d do but didn’t, Beth couldn’t have read the letters.

Angie was seeing two brothers, Ray and Jimmy Cross. Ray was the brains and Jimmy the muscle. Small-time operators, they were crazy about her. That she serviced both didn’t bother either of them. Their main attraction was a Mews they rented off the Clapham Road. It was crammed with hot DVDs, laptops, bogus designer label fashion. They’d been eating curry, chugging Special Brew and vaguely watching
Dumb and Dumber.

Jimmy said:

‘I found some dynamite today.’

Ray threw a can at him, said:

‘You stupid fuck, how are we going to flog that?’

Angie sat up, asked:

‘Where did you find it?’

Delighted to have her attention, Jimmy rushed:

‘We was doing a spliff in that old house on Meadow Road, I pulled a tarpaulin aside and there it was, a crate of the stuff.’

Ray opened a fresh Special, shouted:

‘Get rid, you hear.’

Angie was up

‘No, no, I’ve an idea.’

BRANT WENT:

‘Ahh…’

The hooker finished up, wiped her mouth and got to her feet. Brant stretched, said:

‘There’s brewskis in the fridge, grab us two.’

She glared at him, wanted to shout:

‘Get them yourself, yer fucking pig!’

But she’d known him longer than she wanted to remember, went to the kitchen, rinsed her mouth, spat, said:

‘Good riddance.’

There was a small mirror over the sink and she checked her face. The reflection told the harsh truth: a tired hooker with way too much mileage, the lines of twenty years and all of them hard. Brant from the other room:

‘What, you brewing them? Get your tush in here.’

She grabbed the beers and headed back. He’d put on his trousers, which was a relief, and he tapped the coffee table, said:

‘Plant them here, babe.’

She stared at the table, apparently lost. He asked:

‘You deaf? Plonk them on here.’

‘You don’t have coasters?’

He leant over, grabbed a can, popped the tab, gulped half, belched, said:

‘If you’re not having that, slide it on over.’

She pulled the top, took a ladylike sip. This amused him and he asked:

‘Teach you that at finishing school?’

She looked at him, said:

‘Yeah, the Mile End Road. They’re real big on etiquette.’

He finished the beer, crushed the can and lobbed it over his shoulder, asked:

‘Got any smokes?’

She tried not to sigh, got her handbag, threw over a pack. He caught it, cursed.

‘Silk Cut? The fuck are those?’

‘’Cos of my chest.’

He tore off the filter, said:

‘You standing there? Light me up.’

The phone rang. Brant reached over, grabbed it, said:

‘Yo?’

‘Brant, it’s Roberts, we’ve got a situation.’

Brant winked at the hooker, said:

‘Just had me a situation, too.’

‘I don’t doubt it. Can you get down here?’

‘On my way.’

He stood up, stretched, and the hooker asked:

‘How long have we known each other?’

‘Whoa… who’s counting?’

‘So, did I ever ask you for anything? Not once, not even a few quid?’

He mimed horror, said:

‘You mean you were faking, it wasn’t love?’

‘There’s a guy, name of Millovitz, some European geezer, he’s been beating the girls at the Oval, says they’ll get hurt bad if they don’t pay him weekly. One of the girls, he broke her nose and in this game, that drives value way down.’

Brant selected a pair of tan cords and sparkling white shirt, pulled out a stolen police federation tie, did it up in a Windsor knot. He sat, pulled on heavy work boots then selected a short black raincoat. The wardrobe was open and she could see a ton of new clothes, still with tags on. She could see they were designer labels and what they said to her was money, lots of money. Brant smiled, said:

‘Fell off a lorry, know what I mean?’

She didn’t answer, Brant did a twirl, asked:

‘What do you think? See me on the street, would you get hot?’

She thought she’d get the hell away – everything about him screamed cop. She gave a weak smile, Brant reached down, touched his toes, said:

‘Listen.’

He rapped his knuckle and a dull zing sounded. Straightening, he said:

‘Steel caps. So what time does this shithead usually make an appearance?’

AROUND THE TABLE were Porter Nash, PC McDonald, Brant, assorted plain-clothes officers and, at the top, Chief Inspector Roberts. One of the detectives asked:

‘What’s the PC doing here?’

Roberts looked to Brant who gave a lazy smile, said:

‘You’ll be wanting tea, coffee…’

The guy unsure, glanced round for help, none was forthcoming so he said:

‘Yes, sure… ‘course.’

Brant nodded at McDonald, said:

‘There’s your tea-boy.’

A round of sniggers and McDonald glared at Brant who winked. Roberts coughed, then:

‘Okay, settle down. We’ve got a bomber and according to the Bomb Squad, we’re dealing with an amateur. Which
is not to say people might not get hurt. In fact, with them, it’s more dangerous than professionals as they don’t know what they’re doing. I want blanket door-to-door interviews, computer printout of any individual with any connection to dynamite or blasting, enquiries to building sites to see if any explosive’s been stolen. Get out on the street, get me something. Any questions?’

Porter put up his hand, asked:

‘What’s the deal on the money demand?’

‘There’s no deal. The Super says no payment.’

Porter raised his eyebrows, said:

‘Then we can expect another blast.’

‘Not if we catch them first, okay? Now let’s get moving. Sergeant Brant, a word please.’

As they filed out, Brant said to McDonald:

‘Mug of tea, two sugars… oh, and a wedge of danish… that’s a good boy.’

After they’d gone, Roberts shut the door, said:

‘The Super doesn’t want you in on this.’

Brant looked round the room, studied the range of ‘No Smoking’ signs then pulled out his Weights, fired up, blew a cloud at them, answered:

‘So, what else is new?’

‘She hoped he was burning in hell. What she’d done,
she’d done for Loretta and for the sake of having a
little fun, a pretty scarce commodity for a woman
with a small child and no husband.
She wasn’t sorry for any of it. Not for one goddamn
minute of it.
Scott Phillips,
The Walkaway.

FALLS HAD HAD a shitty day.

As regards the bomber, which was currently A-list, she was out of the loop. Her past connections to the principals – Brant, Roberts, Porter Nash – hadn’t cut any ice. Even the mundane crap, the bottom-feeder stuff, like the door-to-door slog, didn’t include her.

She’d managed to catch Roberts alone in the canteen, a rare moment for the man heading up the hunt and asked:

‘Join you for a sec, guv?’

He hadn’t quite rebuffed her but it was in the neighbourhood, said:

‘I don’t have a whole load of time.’

She wanted to shout:

‘You shithead, when your wife died and you climbed
into a vat of red wine, who pulled you out… who had a whole lot of time then?’

But went with:

‘I won’t keep you, sir.’

As she sat, he glanced at his watch. There are many ways to say
Hey, you’re no longer a player
but this has the benefit of being the shortest. You also get to see the time. Nervous, she almost unconsciously reached for her smokes and he asked:

‘You’re not thinking of smoking are you, not into my face?’

Closed her bag, said:

“Course not, sir.’

Wondering when exactly he’d made the leap to complete prick. Worse, he was tapping the fingers of his right hand on the table and snapped:

‘What is it, Falls? I’m not a mind reader.’

‘Ahm, yes… right, I was wondering… if I might, er, help in the current investigation?’

He stared at her, appeared truly astonished, said:

‘Don’t you know you’re under a cloud? I mean, surely you realise your very job is hanging by a thread?’

‘I thought, sir, that… thought all that was behind me.’

He stood up, straightened his tie, ran his fingers through his hair and without looking at her, said:

‘You thought wrong.’

And was gone.

BRANT CHECKED HIS watch: ten after ten. He was parked about a hundred yards from the Oval tube in a side road to the left of St Mark’s Church. During the day, a drinking school holds sway. Bottles of ‘white lady’ are the drink, if not of choice, definitely of necessity. Usually pure methylated spirit, sometimes it’s spiked with cider. Get a blend of tastes going. Come night, the hookers set up shop and a steady stream of cars cruise the patch. Though not on the scale of King’s Cross, it’s a steady enterprise.

Brant clocked the makes of cars, almost all in good condition. Not hurting for cash but obviously lacking in balance. Few things as hazardous as street sex and not just the risk of diseases but, he supposed, it all added to the rush.

Around eleven, a van pulled up, parked on the kerb. A
white van, not unlike the one every American law enforcement agency was looking for in the Washington sniper case a few years back. A tall blond guy wearing a cream leather jacket (to accessorise the van?) and black combat pants climbed out. His hair thick and long, poured over his upturned collar. Brant muttered: