A White Arrest

‘Homicide dicks’

By the time Brant and Roberts arrived in Brixton a crowd had already gathered. The yellow police lines were being ignored. Roberts called to a uniformed sergeant, said: ‘Get those people back behind the lines.’

‘They won’t move, sir.’

‘Jesus, are you deaf? Make ’em.’

The medical examiner had arrived and was gazing up at the dangling corpse with a look of near admiration.

Roberts asked: ‘Whatcha think, doc?’

‘Drowning, I’d say.’

Brant laughed out loud and got a dig from Roberts.

The doctor said: ‘Unless you’ve got a ladder handy, I suggest you cut him down.’

Roberts gave a grim smile, turned to Brant, said: ‘Your department, I think.’

Brant grunted and summoned two constables. With complete awkwardness and much noise, they lifted him level with the corpse. A loud ‘boo’ came from the crowd, plus calls of:

‘Watch your wallet, mate.’

‘Give ’im a kiss, darling.’

‘What’s your game then?’

When Brant finally got the noose free, the corpse sagged and took him down in a heap atop the constables. More roars from the crowd and a string of obscenities from Brant.

Roberts said: ‘I think you’ve got him, men.’

As Brant struggled to his feet, Roberts asked: ‘Any comments?’

‘Yeah, the fucker forgot to brush his teeth and I can guarantee he didn’t floss.’

The cricket captain was tending his garden when Pandy came by. A local character, he was so called because of the amount of times he’d ridden in a police car. His shout had been: ‘It’s the police, gis a spin in de pandy.’ They did.

Booze hadn’t as much turned his brain to mush as let it slowly erode. Norman had always been good to him, with cash, clothes, patience.

When Pandy told the drinking school he knew the famous captain, they’d given him a good kicking. Years of Jack, meths, surgical spirit had bloated his face into a ruin that would have startled Richard Harris.

He said: ‘Mornin’, Cap!’

‘Morning, Pandy. Need anything?’

‘I’ve an urge for the surge, a few bob for a can if you could?’ Once, Norman had seen him produce a startling white handkerchief for a crying woman. It was the gentleness, the almost shyness of how he’d offered it. Norman slipped the money over and Pandy, his eyes in a nine-yard stare, said:

‘I wasn’t always like this, Cap.’

‘I know, I know that.’

‘Went to AA once, real nice crowd, but the Jack had me then, they said I had to get a sponsor.’

‘A what?’

‘Sponsor, like a friend, you know, who’d look out for you.’

‘And did you get one?’

Pandy gave a huge laugh, said in a cultured voice: ‘Whatcha fink, take a wild bloody guess.’

Norman, fearful of further revelations, said: ‘I better get on.’

‘Cap?’

‘Yes?’

‘Will… will youse be me sponsor?’

‘Ahm…

‘Won’t be a pest, Cap, it’ll be like before but just so I’d have one. I’d like to be able to say it, just once.’

‘Sure, I’d be privileged.’

‘Shake.’

And he held out a hand ingrained with dirt beyond redemption. Norman didn’t hesitate, he took it.

When Pandy had gone, Norman didn’t rush to the kitchen in search of carbolic soap. He continued to work in the garden, his heart a mix of wonder, pain and compassion.

He’d be dead for weeks before his sponsor learnt the news.