A White Arrest

Precarious the pose

Brant was in the ‘E’ room. Expecting a long run. Someone had hooked up a microwave. He looked through the goodies and found a Cornish pasty, muttered ‘Mmm,’ and put it in the micro. Zapped it twice and had it out. Took an experimental bite and stomped his foot, tears running from his eyes. The pasty, blazing, had fastened to the roof of his mouth. He grabbed a coke bottle and swallowed. Finally the burning eased and he said: ‘Jaysus.’

A passing WPC said: ‘Don’t touch the Cornish, Sarge, they’re way past their date.’

The phone rang and he snatched it: ‘Incident room “E”.’

‘Are you investigating the hangings?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘I have some information.’

‘Good, that’s good. And your name, sir?’

‘To prove I’m legit, check the last victim’s fingers.’

‘Might be a tad difficult, mate — sir.’

‘Because of the torching? I doubt that would disguise broken fingers. I’ll call back in an hour.’ And the caller hung up.

Brant was electric, got on to Roberts and the coroner. When Roberts arrived, he told him of the call and of the coroner’s confirmation: ‘The bugger was right, and what’s more, I’ve set up for a trace, he was ringing from a mobile, it kept breaking up. We’ll have him if he calls back.’

Roberts was impressed, said: ‘I’m impressed.’

Brant could feel his adrenaline building. It felt like a hit. Roberts took a seat. A picture of calm, he said: ‘Could be the one, the White Arrest.’

Brant had already raced to the same conclusion, was feeling generous in his victory: ‘For us both, Guv.’

‘No, this is all your own, another Rilke, maybe.’

The phone rang. Brant signalled to the technicians, who gave him the green light, and he picked up: ‘Incident room ‘E’.’

‘You checked the fingers?’

‘We’re just waiting for confirmation.’

‘We’re not criminals, we’re only doing what the courts are failing to do.’

Roberts made an S motion in the air. Stall.

‘Why don’t you come in, we’ll have a chat, work something out.’

But the caller was on a different track. ‘It wasn’t meant to be like this, you know, not white people. Not that I’m a racist.’

Brant tried it on. ‘Course you’re not, I mean you live in Brixton, right?’

Roberts shook his head, signalling U-turn. The caller continued: ‘I don’t think he’ll stop now, he likes it.’

‘But you’re different, I can tell. I mean why don’t you and I have a meet?’

There was static on the line, then a note of panic. ‘Shit, I’ve got to go. I’ll call again.’

And then the line died. Brant swore, looked pleadingly to the techs. They were engrossed for a moment, then gave the thumbs up, shouted: ‘Got him!’

Brant punched the air: ‘Yes!’ And a cheer came from the room.

A technician listened, wrote something down, then handed a piece of paper to Brant. He read aloud: ‘ “Leroy Baker”. Got yer ass, fucker.’ And reached for a phone.

Roberts was up, saying: ‘Wait, wait — what’s the name?’

‘Leroy Baker, we have him.’

Roberts took his arm, pulled him to the other side of the room, saying: ‘Listen, Tom.’

‘Fuck listen, let’s go — we’re on him.’

‘Tom, the name. It’s the first victim.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, he’s using the guy’s mobile.’

Brant sank into a chair, muttering: ‘The thieving scumbag, of all the low-down nasty bastards, I’d like five minutes… and he trailed off into silence.

The room had gone quiet. Roberts said: ‘What’s this, you’ve finished for the day? Get bloody on it!’

A half-hearted hum began to return, with furtive looks to Brant. Roberts touched his shoulder. ‘C’mon sergeant, I’m going to buy you a drink.’