A White Arrest

Hand job

When Roberts got to his home it was clocking midnight and he was clocking zero. The house was in Dulwich, the Knightsbridge of south-east London. This was always said with a straight face. Else how could you say it? Dulwichians liked to think they were but temporarily out of geographic whack. Others said out of their tree. Dulwichians felt they gave the rest of the south-east something to aspire to. And they did. The aspiration to break into their homes and hopefully kick the shit outta them as bonus.

Hope is the drug. The mortgage was the payment from hell and Roberts carried it badly. In the sitting room, he sank into a leather chair that was designed for show. You moved — it cracked and ran friction on the arse. Course it cost a bundle, which was why he felt obliged to use it. Fiona Roberts wasn’t long home but she showered, put on a worn housecoat and hoped she looked… well, housewifey Jason had done as instructed and she could hardly walk. Composing herself, she got the expression fixed, the bored look of feigned interest. Looking as if she couldn’t quite remember his name and jeez, how much did she care? All this went right out the window when he said:

‘You look shagged.’

Guilt cascaded over her and she floundered, tried: ‘What a thing to say to your wife, good Lord!’

But he wasn’t even looking at her now, asked: ‘Pour us a scotch, love — I’m too whacked to wank.’

Indignation rose, as did her voice: ‘How dare you use such language.’

‘What? What did I say?’

‘That you’re too tired to masturbate.’

He laughed out loud, said: ‘Jeez, get a grip. Wag, I said, too tired to wag. You’ve bloody sex on the brain.’

She sloshed whisky into a tumbler and pushed it to him. He said: ‘Thanks dear, so kind — like to hear about my day?’

‘I’m rather tired. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll turn in. Good night.’ And she was outta there. For a few moments he just sat, the whisky untouched in his hand. Then he chanced a large sip, let it settle and said: ‘A hand job would have been nice.’

On his way home Brant stopped at an off-licence and picked up half a dozen Specials. The owner knew him and, not with affection, asked: ‘You want them on the slate, Mr Brant?’

Brant gave his malevolent smile, tapped his pockets, said: ‘I find myself without the readies, Mr Patel. Wanna take a cheque?’

They both had an insecure chuckle at the ludicrousness of such a gesture. As if on afterthought, Brant said: ‘Chuck some readies in there, I’ll get back to you on Friday — how would that be?’

Patel turned to the cash register, raised his eyes to heaven and rang no sale. The continuing story with Brant, who’d planned it for his tombstone. Patel handed over the carrier bag: ‘A pony all right, Mr Brant?’

‘Lovely job and you’re a lovely fella. No further trouble with the NF, I trust?’

‘No, Mr Brant, all is rosy.’

Brant nodded and turned to go, then: ‘By Jove Patel, I must say you’ve mastered the Queen’s tongue rather well, eh? They’d be impressed back in Calcutta.’

Patel couldn’t quite let it go, said: ‘Mr Brant, Calcutta is in India. I am from Rawalpindi.’

‘Whatever.’ And he let his eyes flick across the price list, adding: ‘Thing is boyo, you keep charging like that you’ll be able to bring the cousins over from both places eh? You keep it in yer pants now, hear?’

After he’d gone Patel slammed the counter in frustration. He considered again making the call to Scotland Yard.

Brant lived in a council flat in Kennington. On the third floor, it was a one-bedroom basic unit. He kept it tidy in case he scored. One marriage behind him, he was out to nail anything that moved. Roberts’ wife was his current obsession. As a trophy fuck she couldn’t be bettered. Plus, as he said: ‘A pair of knockers on her like gazooms.’

One wall was devoted entirely to books. All of Ed McBain, the 87th Precinct stories. Two shelves were given to the Matthew Hope series — a less successful enterprise for the said writer. The lower shelf was Evan Hunter, including The Blackboard Jungle.

Brant liked to think he had thus the three faces of the author. The 87th’s went all the way back to the original Penguin editions. Brant kicked off his shoes, opened a Special and drank deep, gasped: ‘Bloody lovely, worth every penny.’ He settled in an armchair and begun to muse on a White Arrest. First he picked up the phone — get the priorities right.

‘Yo, Pizza Express, account number 936. Yeah, that’s it, bring me the pepperoni special. Sure, family size.’ And then he thought — go for it, do the line they use in every movie: ‘And hold the anchovies. Sure, before Tuesday. OK.’

Back to his musing. There were no two ways about it:

One: Roberts was fucked. Two: The station was fucked and he was poised to be the worst fucked of all. All his little perks, minor scams, interrogation techniques, his attitude, guaranteed he’d be shafted before the year was out. A grand sweep of the Met was coming and they were top of the list. Unless… Unless they pulled off the big one, the legendary White Arrest that every copper dreamed about. The veritable Oscar, the Nobel Prize of criminology. Like nailing the Yorkshire Ripper or finding shit-head Lucan. It would clear the books, put you on page one, get you on them chat shows. Have Littlejohn kiss yer arse, ah!

He crushed the can in excitement. Jeez, even his missus would want back.

The doorbell went, crushing his fantasy. A young kid with the pizza. He checked his order form: ‘Brant, right? Family size pepperoni?’

‘That’s it, boyo.’

The list was rechecked and then the kid said: ‘It’s to go on a slab?’

‘Slate, son, but hey, I was all ready to pay. However, I will if they insist!’

He took possession of the pizza. ‘Oh yeah, you deserve a tip don’t you?’

‘If you wish, mister.’

‘Don’t do it without condoms.’

And he shut the door, waited. Moments later, a halfhearted kick hit the door. He was delighted. ‘Good lad, that’s the spirit — now clear off before I put my boot in yer hole.’

After eating most of the meal, he had to open his trousers to breathe and could hardly get the beer down. He hit the remote just in time for The Simpsons. Later he’d catch Beavis and Butthead. He thought: ‘Top of the world, Ma.’