Vixen (Inspector Brant) (3 page)

‘General fucking Custer.’

The guy’s back was pumped, muscles showing through the leather: steroids and gym, the new addiction. He approached the hookers, said a few words then backhanded one. Another started to shout and he punched her in the stomach. Brant reached for a tyre iron, paused, saying, ‘Naw…’ and let it be. He got out and slammed his car door but if the guy heard, he didn’t care. Brant was delighted, he loved the stupid ones.

The guy was raising his hands again and Brant shouted:

‘Yo, Custer?’

The guy turned, in no hurry. Whatever was coming, he could deal with it. He looked at Brant, asked:

‘You calling me, prick-face?’

Brant smiled, this was better than he’d hoped. Moved to within a cigarette of the guy, said:

‘I’m Sergeant Brant. Due to recent public concern, we have to identify ourselves from the off. My name mean anything to you?’

The guy dredged up phlegm from deep in his chest, sampled it, then brought it up, letting his head back, he hawked the full load, then spat it to an inch of Brant’s left shoe, said:

‘That name don’t mean shit to me.’

Brant didn’t move, which set off an alarm in the guy’s confidence.

Brant said:

‘Oh, that’s not very nice. Watch out, she’s behind you.’

Almost never failed, the oldest ruse in the book and the shitheads went for it every time. The guy turned and Brant hit him with the low kidney shot, felling him like a sack of Galway potatoes. He moved round then with the steel caps, delivered a staccato of kicks to the body. A small cheer went up from the girls. Brant hunkered down, grabbed the blond hair with his left hand and dragged the guy’s face up, said:

‘You gotta be hurting, am I right?… No, no, don’t answer ‘cos I still have to break your nose… shshhhhhh, be done before you can shout “police intimidation”.’

And it was.

Brant straightened up, reached for his cigs, fired up, finally turned to the hookers who were gaping at him. No strangers to violence, they were stunned at the casual ferocity. Brant gave his wolf smile, said:

‘Nice evening for it.’

Then nudging the guy with the tip of his shoe, he said:

‘I see you again, you’re history.’

As he got back in the car, he enjoyed the sight of the women rolling the guy.

Falls wanted a drink; she wanted a lot of drinks. The Roebuck was usually quiet midweek and on her way to the
bar she clocked a few lone drinkers. A surly barman slapped her drink on the counter. She was preparing to have his ass when a customer banged into her, said:

‘Sorry, lost my balance.’

And he veered away, heading for the door. A young woman rose from a table, grabbed him and got his arm midway on his back, put her hand in his pocket then shoved him away, snarling

‘Now, fuck off.’

He made for the door and was gone. The woman walked to Falls, held out a purse, said:

‘He dipped you.’

Falls stared at her purse in astonishment, thinking,
I never felt him
, then asked:

‘Can I buy you a drink? It’s the very least I can do.’

The woman, blonde, pretty, in expensive clothes gave a radiant smile, said:

‘Sure, large vodka, loads of ice.’

Falls signalled to the barman, asked her:

‘Justice?’

‘Yeah, why fuck it up?’

Falls liked her already. They moved to a table and Falls raised her glass, said:

‘Thanks so much.’

She said, ‘No big thing,’ and sank the double like a docker, raised her finger, said:

‘Yo, bar-person. Hit us again.’

Then she produced a pack of Rothmans, asked:

‘Hope you don’t mind?’

Falls couldn’t believe she’d found a kindred spirit, put out her hand, went:

‘I’m Elizabeth.’

And was amazed with herself as she never normally gave her first name.

The woman took her hand, said:

‘I’m happy to meet you.’

After another round, Falls was seriously wrecked, said:

‘I’m a cop.’

‘Yeah?’

Not interested, cool about it. Falls continued:

‘And I’ve got to say you handled that guy like you were a cop yourself.’

The woman flashed the smile, said:

‘I work the clubs. Bit of dancing, some hostessing, and a whole pile of assholes.’

Falls got out some paper, wrote her number down, said:

‘Listen, let’s get together again, my treat.’

The woman nodded and glanced at her watch, said:

‘Got to run.’

Falls went to stand, staggered, then:

‘I don’t even know your name.’

Over her shoulder, as she left, the woman said:

‘Angie.’

A car was parked up the street and Angie got in, the two brothers waiting. One asked:

‘How did it go?’

‘Piece of cake, she’s a lush.’

Ray, the smart one, asked:

‘Why did you have to be so rough when you grabbed me?’

‘Make it look real. She’s a cop, she’d smell a bogus stunt.’

Jimmy, the muscle, asked:

‘What do you want to meet a cop for?’

Angie tapped her forehead, said:

‘We want to know how the investigation is going, who better to tell us than a cop?’

Ray, negotiating traffic, was shaking his head, went:

‘Seems risky to me.’

“Course it’s risky, that’s the fucking rush.’

THE SECOND EXPLOSION was at a teenage disco, situated off Coldharbour Lane. A large hall had been converted by local builders, its aim to keep teenagers away from the main strip in Brixton. So now the kids hit the strip first, scored the dope, then went to the disco. Parents, delighted at the lack of booze, congratulated themselves on their efforts.

Two parents, acting as bouncers, were injured in the blast. The dynamite had been placed in a litter bin sited conveniently at the main entrance. The victims, covered in blood, were on the front page of all the papers with screaming headlines:

BOMBER TARGETS TEENS

Roberts, all control gone, was shouting:

‘They didn’t phone… why didn’t they bloody phone? I
mean, play fucking fair, we never even got a chance to answer the ransom demand. What the hell is going on?’

No one knew. Roberts glared at his team. Porter Nash, clearing his throat, began:

‘I met with the Bomb Squad.’

‘Yeah?’

‘It’s the same outfit, same MO. A few sticks of dynamite and the crude timer.’

Brant, lit a cig, exhaled, asked:

‘Any luck on the usual suspects?’

‘No, seems to be a new operator.’

Roberts slammed his hand on the table, said:

‘I’ve to meet the Super in ten minutes… is that what I tell him… ? That we figure it’s a new operator? He’s going to fucking lap that up, bound to be commendations all round.’

Porter Nash felt he should say something further, tried:

‘The victims are doing well, the injuries looked worse than they actually were.’

Roberts wasn’t placated

‘Take a look at the bloody tabloids, the damage is already done.’

A silence descended and the atmosphere was thick with recrimination.

The phone rang.

‘I ran a tape I’d rented on the way back, Jennifer
Jason Leigh in
Rush.
I felt like watching cops get
fucked up.’
Matthew Stokoe,
High Life

ROBERTS GRABBED THE phone, said:

‘Yes?’

A robotic tone, speaking through one of those voicechangers, asked:

‘You in charge of the bomber case?’

‘Yes, I’m Chief Inspector Roberts.’

‘Impressive title, you like to use that, I’d say. What you’d do, kiss some major ass to get there?’

‘Is that a question?’

Heard a snigger, someone in the background, then:

‘Naw, I like fucking with you. Lighten up, pal, these are the jokes. You’ll have had a second explosion?’

Roberts was furious, he felt chest pains, asked:

‘What happened to a warning? What happened to you calling about the money?’

More sniggers, then:

‘Tell you the truth, Rob, it got away from us. That ever happen to you? The truth is, we changed the rules. You want to know why?’

‘Why?’

‘’Cos we can.’

Roberts glanced round the room, saw the stone expressions, said:

‘You want payment, you’ll have to play by some rules.’

Silence and he thought the call had ended, then a harsher tone:

‘You fuck-face, you mind if I call you that? Not that it matters, you’re a messenger boy, got it? Your function is to act as bagman. We want six large.’

‘What?’

‘Two explosions – this shit is expensive. Time and money, you get my meaning? But hey, I can lighten up, cut you some slack. How would it be if I give you 48 hours, say Friday evening, round 6.00? I’ll give you a bell, that help at all?’

Roberts took a deep breath, tried to rein in his rage, said:

‘I’ll need more time.’

‘No can do, fellah.’

Click.

Roberts put the phone down, said:

‘See if there’s any hope of a trace. Not that I expect one.’

No trace.

FALLS CAME TO with a bad hangover. She was wearing a long old Snoopy T-shirt that had been washed so often the dog was no longer distinguishable. Her mouth was like a desert and she went to the kitchen, gulped a glass of water. It hit her stomach like ice and she retched, said:

‘That’s it, I’m never drinking again, least not on week nights.’

This was a familiar mantra: as comfortable as it was bogus. She began to boil some water, thinking tea would help, at least wake her up.

She was up for a new assignment. Word was that a new WPC was coming on board and Falls would be nursemaiding her. Of all the duties she loathed, this was the one she loathed most. All that enthusiasm, the high ideals and the spirit of camaraderie they expected. It was so fucking
wearing. Then came the gradual erosion of energy and an initial disbelief that developed into full-blown cynicism. When they asked with that bright, fresh tone:
‘What am I to do?’
Falls longed to scream: ‘QUIT!’

Yeah, like they were ever going to believe her. Then Brant would come sniffing as he always did with the new ones and he’d turn on the full Celtic charm. Few could charm like that devil. She’d succumbed herself and more than once. He’d fuck them over every which way till Tuesday and they’d come back for more.

She dressed in her uniform and stood back to survey what she saw.
A black woman dressed in the clothes of the enemy
, that’s what a black man had told her in Brixton market. She’d tried to rationalise it, told him that at least this way they had help in the ranks, knew how weak she sounded and saw his lip curl with disdain. He rapped:

‘Yo be fooling your own self, girl.’

More and more, she was coming to believe he had been right. Using a brush, she flicked flecks of white off the tunic, and ran a hand through her frizzy hair. Once, in a moment of madness, she’d had all the kinks ironed out and that had hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

Rosie had been alive then and when she’d seen the result, she’d wailed:

‘Oh, big mistake! Are you trying to pass for white?’

That hurt and in more ways than she’d ever admit. Rosie had been her best friend, a WPC on the ladder up. They’d called themselves the poor man’s Cagney and Lacey, and had shared the chauvinism they’d had to
endure on a daily basis. Then one day Rosie had gone on a routine call, a domestic, hardly even worth writing up. The guy, a junkie with Aids, had bitten her. Tormented as to how she’d tell her husband, she’d slit her wrists and taken a long, hot bath; was dead before the water went cold. Falls had sworn then that she’d never get close to another cop, it was too risky.

She arrived early at the station and at the door, a fresh faced young woman in uniform eagerly approached, asking, ‘WPCFlass?’

Falls sighed, said:

‘You’re going to be a policewoman?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Then take the bloody time to get my name right.’

The woman was in those impossible early twenties, where they look barely sixteen. She had black hair cut short, brown eyes and a face that might have been described as pretty if you had three drinks behind you. The uniform disguised her shape but she seemed to be in good physical nick. It was the fresh-faced energy that annoyed Falls, the gung-ho, raring- to-go shit that they presented. Falls asked:

‘How did you know it was me?’

The woman looked back towards the desk sergeant, who was grinning from ear to ear, hesitated, and Falls said:

‘Spit it out, he told you to wait for the nigger, is that it? You want to work with me, you better get honest; I can’t stand lies.’

This was a little rich coming from Falls, who told lies all
the time, but what the hell? The thing with young people is they tend to believe outrageous crap like that. The woman gave an uncertain smile, said:

‘He told me you’d be late… and that you’d be hung-over… oh, and that you were black as his shoe.’

Falls gave him the look, which he enjoyed immensely, the fuck even winked, and then she asked:

‘What’s your name?’

‘WPC Andrews.’

The pride with which she trotted it out was appalling and, worse, you knew she’d rehearsed it a hundred times, probably in front of a mirror. She’d have a family, a happy mum and dad who were so proud of their little girl. All the frigging neighbours would have turned out to wish her well and they’d watch
The Bill
with renewed vigour. Falls gave her the fixed stare, said:

‘One of the traits required of a police person is accuracy: an ability to actually listen to the question you are asked. Now let’s try again: what is your name, not your flaming rank and serial number, can you do that?

She could and said:

‘Patricia Andrews, but my friends call me Trish.’

This was much as Falls expected: stupidity and confidence, the worst combination there is. In jig time, of course, she’d be called Julie and every wag in the station would whistle ‘The Sound of Music’ at least once as she passed. Falls brushed past her, said:

‘Let’s get to the most important part of policing.’

Andrews was near gushing, went: