A White Arrest

The blues

The funeral for the first cricketer was a massive affair. The coffin was carried by his team mates and they’d donned the blazing whites. Even the Devon Malcolm racism storm was temporarily shelved. David ‘Syd’ Lawrence had called for Ray Illingworth to be banned from every TV and radio in the country. The former chairman of selectors was alleged to have called the Derbyshire paceman a ‘nig-nog’. Officers at Lords prayed the funeral would distract from the whole sordid affair. It did.

A huge police presence blocked off most of south-east London. It was feared the Umpire might try to annihilate the remaining nine in one fell swoop. Sky had obtained exclusive rights and was considering a whole series devoted to dead cricketers. It was rumoured that Sting was composing a song for the occasion, but this was proved to be only scare-mongering. It scared a lot of people.

Brant and Roberts were positioned on the roof of St Mark’s Cathedral, a tactical position according to the Super.

‘Out in the bloody cold,’ snapped Roberts.

Brant, lowering his binoculars, said: ‘Good view, though, the Big Issue is selling nicely.’

‘We’re out of it Tom, the big boys are running the show. The game is a total media event now. See, we’d be on our arses altogether if they didn’t need local background.’

Brant didn’t care. The more the investigation built, the less notice he attracted. He asked: ‘Think they’ll get him?’

‘They have as much chance as you do of understanding cricket.’

‘I know a bit.’

Roberts opened a thermos, refilled their cups and asked: ‘Oh yeah? Who’s Allan Donald?’

‘Urn?’

‘Like I thought.’

‘Tell us, Guv, go on.’

‘The South African paceman offered mega bucks by Warwickshire to break the hundred-wicket barrier.’

‘He’s good then, is he?’

‘Good good? He claimed eighty-nine first class victims for the country in ’95. In ’96, in a summer off from country cricket, he took a hundred and six wickets to help Rishton retain a League title.’

Roberts’ voice had risen and he self-consciously pulled back, said apologetically: ‘I get a bit carried away.’

Brant found a sandwich, took a bite and said: ‘Don’t mean shit to me, Guv.’

Roberts went quiet, watched the funeral halt briefly, and he imagined all went still, a suspended moment when past glories, the sound of bat against ball and the hush of the crowd are recalled.

Brant said: ‘At a guess Guv, I’d say you haven’t suffered from the Paradise Syndrome.’

‘The what?’

‘You remember the Eurythmics, thin chick who looked like a faded Bowie and a hippy guy named Dave Stewart. Made fuckin’ shitpiles of money, that’s yer Paradise Syndrome right there.’

‘Lucky sod, I could do with a blast of such depression.’

They watched the huge line of cars and Brant said: ‘Me, I’d have to put one song to that funeral.’

‘What’s that then?’

‘“Brothers in Arms”, no contest.’

Brant began to scratch at his chest and Roberts watched, then said: ‘That’s it, you’re wearing a Met Vest. I thought you’d got fat.’

They were knife- and bullet-proof items issued to 30,000 officers. Needless to say, they hadn’t come cheap and they didn’t fit under the regulation shirts. Every officer had an issue of shirts and all of them had to be replaced.

It amused Roberts no end and he slipped into a near-pleasant mood. He reminisced: ‘The other night, Tom, when we had a few drinks, it was a bit of an eye opener.’

A now surly Brant tore at the vest, saying: ‘Bloody things. What? Oh, the other night, yes, I suppose. Me, though, when I go for a few bevvies, I hope it’s going to be a leg opener. I’m never wearing these vests again.’

A TV helicopter hovered above and the cameraman zoomed in on Roberts and Brant. The pilot asked: ‘Anything?’

‘Naw, just a couple of wankers.’

The discarded Met Vest lay on the roof of the cathedral, like a prayer that wasn’t said.

The notice read: Annual Met Dance. Fancy Dress Preferred. Tickets?10. Buffet amp; Bar Till Late, ’60s Band. All Ranks Expected To Attend. Roberts was staring at it when Brant came up alongside and said: ‘Sixties? Does it mean they’ve been around since then, which would mean they’ve got to be knackered.’

‘You sure have some odd thought processes, Sergeant. I dunno if that’s because yer Irish, a policeman or a weird bastard.’

A light hit Brant’s eyes. ‘Jeez Guv, I’ve had a brainwave.’

‘Yeah? You know who the Umpire is?’

‘Now listen, see that fancy dress? Here’s something… Roberts listened to Brant’s idea then exchanged:

‘I couldn’t… good Lord, sergeant, I mean, they’d think we were taking the piss.’

‘Ahm, c’mon Guv, it’s a wicked notion, you know it is, it’s downright — what’s the word you like — Nora?’

‘Noir. Yeah, it is a bit, lemme have a think on it.’

‘Nice one, Guv. You’ll see, it’ll be a gas.’

‘Mmm.’