A White Arrest

Law 42: Unfair Play. The Umpires are the sole judges of fair and unfair play

Nobody listens to Mantovani, I mean, get real. Not even Mantovani listens much anymore. He’s been consigned to the fifties rack and labelled miscellaneous.

But Graham Norman did, and all the time. His wife had given up joking about it and his kids just prayed the bastard never made it to CD. As captain of the England cricket team, Graham could indulge his whims.

He’d attended an indifferent public school, but ambition burned like the old values. He had a small talent and an unending thirst for practice, plus he knew how to please, especially the press. Early on, he sought them out, and when his ascent began, he took them along. He took up golf to cash in on his name link with Greg Norman. One of his proudest moments was immortalised in a framed photo of them together, with the caption ‘Two greats’.

He glanced round his study and felt near satisfied. For a south-east London boy, he’d come all the way. As the strains of Mantovani reached a feeble peak, his wife peered round the door, said: ‘For heaven’s sake, turn it down. I declare they’ll be playing him at your funeral.’

Words that would all too soon come to taunt and torment her.

As Brant left the station, a TV reporter approached.

‘DS Brant?’

‘Who’s askin’?’

‘I’m Mulligan, from Channel 5. I’ve been an admirer since you solved the Rilke case.’

Brant guffawed and the reporter stepped back. His hand behind his back, he signalled the cameraman to roll it.

‘I said something funny, DS?’

‘Mr Mulligan. No relation to the Gold Cup winner, I suppose?’

‘I’d like to ask your views on the cricket killings.’

‘No comment, boyo, not my case.’

But off the record, what sort of man do you think is behind this?’

‘A nutter. One of those bed wetters. Hey, are you filming?’

‘Thank you, Detective Sergeant Brant.’

It aired at prime time and among the viewers was the Umpire. The very next day he began to follow Brant. It wasn’t in his plan yet to kill policemen, but his rage was such that he felt compelled. Two days later he was at vigil outside Brant’s flat when the sergeant emerged with a very mangy dog on a battered leash.

Watching them, he could see the mutual affection. It looked as if someone had attempted to shear the animal. But even the Umpire could sense they made a pair, odd and bizarre but suited. He knew then how to hurt the policeman. Down the street, the dog’s heart leapt as his idol said: ‘C’mon Meyer, I think it’s saveloy and chips for two, eh? Whatcha fink, extra portions? Yeah, me ’n’ all.’

It had happened like this: Brant had parked his car on double yellow lines. A traffic warden materialised out of the sewer. Had the book open, was already writing.

Brant flashed his warrant card, said: ‘Get a real job, Adolf.’

As the warden slunk back to his yellow lair, Brant headed for his flat. A howl of pure anguish pierced his skull and he whirled round, muttering: ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what is that?’

An alley beside Brant’s building seemed to be the source. There as another howl of such pain that he felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He moved faster.

A man with a pick-axe was beating a dog with slow, measured intent. Brant shouted: ‘Oi, you!’

The man turned, a smile on his face. Well-dressed in a casual way, a knock-down Armani jacket, subdesigned jeans, Nikes. About fifty, he looked like your friendly uncle. Well, your friendly uncle with a pick-axe handle. He said: ‘You want some of this, is that it?’

‘Yes please,’ said Brant, and pushed him.

The pick-axe handle went high and to the right. Brant flinched, stepped to the left and dealt two rapid power punches to the kidney. That’s all she wrote.

Brant bent down, rummaged in the man’s jacket, extracted a wallet, flipped it open. Read: ‘Swan’, looked at the man, then added, ‘Sorry, MISTER fuckin’ Swan. Says so right here. See me boyo I’ve a white shirt, but I’ve a blue collar soul. That means I like dogs.’

As the man’s pain eased, his attitude returned and he smirked: ‘I’ll have the police on you mate.’

‘I am the bloody police, and this — ’ he took a wedge of notes from the wallet ‘- is for the RSPCA.’

Brant went over to the dog and said gently: ‘Can you walk boy?’ Clumps of hair had been torn from the creature, and there was a large bald patch. Brant stroked him softly, said: ‘You’re the spit of Meyer Mayer, as bald as an egg.’

Brant was chewing on a slice of pizza, the rest he’d hand fed to Meyer. He was saying: ‘I’m a man in his eens. No, not teens, listen up fella, it’s caff-eine, nicot-ine, non-prot-een that’s made a man of me. You only need to remember one thing about pizza: bite the delivery boy’s ankles. Yeah, like Norman Hunter in his day. There was a card, none of yer Ryan Giggs preciousness. Or here, Dave Prouse, a London boy. Played Darth Vader. Didn’t know that, eh? Want some beer?’ Meyer hadn’t known, and yes to the drink. He liked how it made him dizzy. And shit, he could bite ankles, would welcome the chance.

Brant, lost in wonder, said: ‘Jeez, old Dave didn’t know what Star Wars was gonna do, so he took a flat fee. Three large. But Alec Guinness, he opted for a percentage, has got over a hundred million so far. Make you bloody howl, eh?’

Silence descended as man and dog chewed, pondering the sheer awfulness of chance.

Outside, the Umpire kept vigil, his mind in flames.

Brant was washing Meyer in the bath, said: ‘You’re a babe magnet.’ He’d heard that walking a dog was a sure way to meet women. You exchange phone numbers over leashes and later you did it over the doggy bowl. The other way was supermarkets. Jeez, even Falls had scored there. So OK, she got a security guard, which was kinda rolling yer own, but what the hell. Who’s keeping score? The bath didn’t alter Meyer radically. Now he was a clean, balding animal, like a Time Out reader. Meyer stared at Brant with a look of ‘it ain’t gonna work’.

And Brant said: ‘Hold the phones buddy, you gotta have magnetism, draw them in with scent,’ and blasted Meyer with Old Spice. He could almost hear the Beach Boys’ ‘Surfin Safari’, and began to hum it. Not the easiest tune to solo.

As the smell of spice wafted forth, Brant said: ‘Hey, not bad,’ and gave himself more than a generous dollop. When they hit the common you could have smelled them coming. If dogs could strut, then Meyer tried. And sure, the women were out en masse, both dogged and dog-less.

Alas, the boyos didn’t score. In fact, one woman said: ‘You barbarian, ought to be arrested for mistreating that animal.’ But Brant took it well, almost waxed philosophical, said: ‘Might have over done after-shave a tad.’

Babe-less, they headed for the chip shop. The Umpire clocked their progress. Brant might have noticed but he’d already decided it was best they didn’t score. Now he could focus on Fiona Roberts. She might have a dog. She already had a husband.