A White Arrest

Room mate? A hammering likely to wake the very dead

Falls was dreaming of her father when the hammering began at her door. Awakening, she checked the time, 3.30am, and heard in disbelief: ‘Open up, this is the police.’

Throwing on a robe, she went to the door and opened it on the safety chain. Brant.

‘What the —?’

‘I bring you greetings.’

She could smell the wave of liquor and he looked demented. She said: ‘Sergeant, this is hardly an appropriate hour.’

‘I need a kip.’

And she figured: ‘Pay up time.’

Before she could protest, he said: ‘Don’t be a cow. I’ve been turned over. I’ll sleep on the couch.’

Reluctantly, she opened the door. He slouched in, muttering: ‘McBain, Hunter, all done in.’

‘Your friends?’

And he gave what she could only describe as a cackle and said: ‘Friends? Yes, yes. I believe they were, and better than most.’ He flopped down on the couch, said: ‘Jay-sus, I need some sleep. Get the light would you?’ And within minutes he was snoring. She got a blanket from her bed and as she put it over him she saw the gun in his waistband. Afraid he’d do damage, she reached for it, only to have her wrist seized. He said: ‘Don’t handle my weapon.’

As she tried to regain her sleep, she wished: ‘Hope he shoots his balls off.’

Falls prided herself on the flat being a ‘smoke free zone’. Even her old dad, no matter how pissed, never had the bottle to light his ‘home-mades’ there. Now she woke to the stench of nicotine, clouds of it hung in the air. Storming out to the living room, she found Brant wrapped in her best towel, a cigarette dangling on his lips. He said: ‘Breakfast’s made. Well, sort of. I’ve boiled the water. Whatcha fancy, coffee all right?’

‘No thank you, I’m a tea drinker.’

As she went into the kitchen, he observed: ‘Jay-sus, you’ve got a big arse, haven’t you?’

The kitchen was a ruin. Used cups, stained teatowels, opened jars left everywhere. He strolled in after her, asked: ‘How’d it go then?’

‘What?’

‘The funeral.’

‘Oh. Great. No, I mean OK, it was small.’

‘He was a small man, eh?’

She glared at him: ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’

‘Did Roberts go?’

‘Yes, him and Mrs Roberts.’

‘Ah, the lovely Fiona. I could ride that.’

She slammed a cup on the sink, said:

‘Really, Sergeant. Are you trying to be deliberately offensive?’ He gave a look of near-innocence.

‘Me? Listen babe, don’t get yer knickers in a twist, this is my good side.’

She looked at him with distaste, said: ‘Your chin is bleeding.’

He wiped at it with an end of the towel, her favourite white fluffy one, said: ‘Them lady razors, near tore the face offa me.’

Another item for the bin, she sighed. He stood up, said: ‘I need to ask your… co-operation.’

‘Oh?’

‘If certain items — shall we say information — about the big cases, arrive, I’d appreciate a nod before it gets to Roberts.’

‘I don’t know, Sarge, I mean…

‘C’mon Falls. I’m not asking much. He’ll be informed. Eventually.’ Without another word, he went into the sitting room, dressed, and presented himself, asking: ‘How do I look?’

‘Er…

‘Yeah, I thought so. I’ve got to go chat to a junkie.’

She felt she’d been a tad cold, nay harsh, and tried to pull back a bit. In the hall, she said in a soft voice: ‘Sarge, thanks for not, you know, trying it on.’

‘Hey, I don’t jump the help, OK.’

Roberts had watched a documentary on Francis Bacon. He especially liked Bacon’s cry when he entered a club in Soho: ‘Champagne for my real friends. Real pain for my sham friends’. He was about to experience some major pain himself. The Chief Super was having more than a piece of Roberts’ hide and kept repeating: ‘I’m not the type to say “I told you so”.’

He was crowing over the ‘solution’ to the cricket murder. Roberts was seething, said quietly: ‘Oh, it’s been solved?’

‘Don’t take that tone with me, laddie. It’s solved as far as we’re concerned.’

Roberts wanted to shout: ‘Fuck you, sir, fuck the brass and the chain of command and the politicians.’ But he said: ‘If you say so, sir.’

‘I do say so. Our American cousins talk about bottom feeders. Are you cognizant with it?’

‘Bottom of the shit pile, sir, would that be close?’

‘Brant, now he’s a good example. Look here.’ And he threw a document across the desk, said: ‘The yard have been on to me. Your precious Detective Sergeant is accused of bribe-taking by a Mr Patel, of intimidation by a tobacconist in the West End, of brutality by an accused rapist, of freebies by a pizza company… the list goes on.’

Roberts barely glanced at it, said: ‘Nickel and dime. He’s a good copper.’

‘He’s finished, that’s what he is. I doubt even a cream arrest could save him.’

‘That’s white, sir. A White Arrest.’

‘Are you sure? Well, I want to ensure he doesn’t pull off one of those. So you’re back in charge of the vigilante business. See it’s put to bed quickly.’

‘Put to bed, sir?’

‘Get on with it, and I’ll remind you of thin ice yourself, questions have been asked before.’

With that he was dismissed. Outside he ran his finger along the rim of his ear. A passing WPC asked: ‘All right, sir, your ear I mean?’

‘Oh yeah, I’ve just had a flea put in it.’