A White Arrest

‘He who hits first gets promoted’ (Detective Sergeant Brant)

Brant leant over the suspect, asked: ‘Have you ever had a puck in the throat?’ The suspect, a young white male, didn’t know the answer, but he knew the very question boded ill.

Brant put his hand to his forehead said: ‘Oh gosh, how unthinking of me. You probably don’t know what a puck is. It’s my Irish background, those words just hop in any old place. Let me enlighten you.’

The police constable standing by the door of the interview room shifted nervously. Brant knew and ignored him, said: ‘A puck is — ’ and lashed out with his closed fist to the man’s Adam’s apple. He went over backwards in his chair, clutching his throat. No sound other than the chair hitting.

Brant said: ‘That’s what it is. A demonstration is worth a hundred words, so my old mum always said — bless her.’

The man writhed on the floor as he fought to catch his breath. The constable made a move forward, said, ‘Really, sir, I — ’

‘Shut the fuck up.’ Brant righted the chair, said: ‘Take your time son, no hurry, no hurry at all. A few more pucks you’ll forget about time completely. But time out, let’s have a nice cup o’ tea, eh? Whatcha say to a brewski me oul’ china?’ Brant sat in the chair, took out a crumpled cigarette and lit it, said in a strangled voice: ‘Oh Jesus, these boys catch you in the throat — know what I mean?’ He took another lethal pull then asked: ‘Do you want to tell me why you raped the girl before the tea, or wait till after?’ Before, the man said.

Brant was like a pit-bull. You saw him and the word ‘pugnacious’ leapt to mind. It fitted. His hair was in galloping recession and what remained was cut to the skull. Dark eyes over a nose that had been broken at least twice. A full, sensual mouth that hinted at gentility if not gentleness. Neither applied. He was 5’ 8” and powerfully built. Not from the gym but rather from a smouldering rage. Over a drink he’d admit: ‘I was born angry and got worse.’

He’d achieved the rank of detective sergeant through sheer bloody-mindedness. It seemed unlikely he’d progress in the Metropolitan Police. It was anxious to shed its bully-boy image.

Special Branch had wooed him but he’d told them in a memorable memo to ‘Get fucked’. It made the Branch love him all the more. He was their kind of rough.

Outside the interview room the constable asked: ‘If I might have a word, sir.’

‘Make it snappy, boyo.’

‘I feel I must protest.’

Brant shot his hand out, grabbing the man’s testicles, growled: ‘Feel that! Get yourself a set of brass ones boyo, or you’ll be patrolling the Peckham Estates.’

Falls approached, said: ‘Ah. the hands-on approach.’

‘Whatcha want, Falls?’

‘Mr Roberts wants you.’

He released the constable, said: ‘Don’t ever interrupt my interrogation again. Got that, laddie?’

The C A club had no connection to the clothing shop and they certainly didn’t advertise. It stood for Certain Age, as in ‘women of a’. The women were of the age where they were certain what they wanted. And what they wanted was sex. No frills.

No hassle.

No complications.

Roberts’ wife was forty-six. According to the new Hollywood chick-flicks, a woman of forty-six had more hope of being killed by a psychopath than finding a new partner.

Her friend Penelope had shared this gem with her and was now saying: ‘Fiona, don’t you ever just want to get laid by a hunk and no complications?’

Fiona poured the coffee, laughed nervously. Emboldened, Penny urged: ‘Don’t you want to know if black guys are bigger?’

‘Good Lord, Penny!’

‘Course you do, especially when the only prick in your life is a real prick.’

‘He’s not so bad.’

‘He’s a pompous bastard. C’mon, it’s your birthday, let me treat you to the CA. You’ll get laid like you always wanted and it won’t even cost you money. It’s my treat.’

Fiona had already decided but wanted to be coaxed, even lured, and asked: ‘Is it safe?’

‘Safe? You want safe, buy a vibrator. C’mon, live it up girl — men do it all the time, we’re only catching up.’

Fiona hesitated, then asked: ‘And the men, are they young?’

‘None over twenty and pecs to die for.’

‘OK then — should I bring anything?’

‘Your imagination. Let’s party!’

Brant didn’t knock, just strode into Roberts’ office.

‘You don’t knock?’

‘Gee, Guv, I was so keen to answer your summons, I clean forgot.’

‘Keen!’

‘Aye, keen as mustard, Guv.’

‘Don’t call me Guv, this isn’t The Sweeney.’

‘And you’re no Reagan, eh? Here, I’ve another McBain for you.’

He tossed a dog-eared book on to the desk. It looked like it had been chewed, laundered and beaten. Roberts didn’t touch it, said: ‘You found this in the toilet, that’s it?’

‘It’s his best yet. No one does the Police Procedural like Ed.’

Roberts leaned over to see the title. A food stain had obliterated that. At least he hoped it was food. He said: ‘You should support the home side, read Bill James, get the humorous take on policing.’

‘For humour, sir, I have you — my humour cup overflowed!’

The relationship twixt R and B always seemed a beat away from beating. You felt like they’d like nothing better than to get down and kick the living shit out of each other. Which had happened. The tension between them was the chemistry that glued. Co-dependency was another word for it.

The phone rang, postponing further needling.

Roberts snapped it and Brant heard: ‘What, a lamppost? Where? When? Jesus! Don’t friggin touch him. No! Don’t cut him down. Keep the press away. Oh shit. We’re on our way’ And he put the phone down.

Brant smiled, asked: ‘Trouble, Guv?’

‘A lynching. In Brixton.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘Do I look like I’m bloody kidding? And they left a note.’

‘What? Like “Back at two”?’

‘How the hell do I know? Let’s go.’

‘Right, Guv.’

‘What did I tell you Brant, eh? Did I tell you not to bloody call me that?’

Brant said: ‘Don’t forget McBain, we’ll need all the help we can get.’

Roberts picked it up and, with a fine overhead lob, landed it in the dustbin and said: ‘Bingo.’