Ammunition

9

For the next week, the cops did what they do best… knocked on doors, the old reliable, and checked out various tips that were phoned in. Brant had been moved out of Intensive Care and was now in a private room with two armed policemen outside. The doctors were stunned at his rate of recovery. He was on his feet by the second day but eerily silent. The Super had sent a flunkey to wish him a speedy recovery, Brant told him to get fucked. The flunkey didn’t report these exact words. He knew that in the Met, they did shoot the messenger, he simply said that Brant was healing rapidly.

The Super sighed.

Roberts, with WPC Andrews along, went to find Brant’s current snitch, a colourful individual named Caz, who wore garish shirts and, oddly enough, had never done any jail time. He was known to be a consummate dancer, though how this enriched his profession of snitching was up for debate. He carried a switchblade and was reputed to be very fast with said instrument.

Caz had met Roberts before, but was not happy to see yet another cop, especially a woman. They found him in The Warrington Arms, drinking a shandy. He looked at Roberts, ignoring Andrews, whined:

‘Who da bitch?’

He was from Croydon but affected to be from Salvador, Equador, Argentina, depending on the day of the week. Roberts sat in right beside Caz, Andrews opposite, and he stomped down hard on Caz’s right foot, saying:

‘She’s a police person. Don’t call her that again… claro, amigo? ’

Caz yelped, that was his best foot for the rumba. He said:

‘How I can operate as undercover for you, you keep exposing me to new coppers?’

The barman was heading their way but Roberts waved him off, said to Caz:

‘Drop the accent and the attitude. You fuck with that lady, you fuck with me, got it?’

Caz got it.

Andrews had never met a snitch before, and Roberts had told her that they were the poisoned life blood of policing, but you had to treat them with a delicate balance of intimidation and flattery. She had no idea of how this could work.

Mostly, it was the intimidation.

Roberts had added, when they least expect it, you bung them a few quid. Andrews was horrified, asked:

‘The Met pays them?’

Roberts let out a breath, said:

‘No, we pay them out of petty cash, off the books.’

Andrews was still of the belief that policing was a higher calling and that a certain code of morals should be followed. She said:

‘But isn’t that wrong?’

Roberts looked at her, wondering how long before she grew up, said:

‘It’s wrong if we don’t get the information.’

She watched Caz. He seemed like a totally unreliable sort. She wouldn’t believe a word he said and… him calling her a bitch, there was no cause for that. Roberts was asking:

‘So, my dancing ponce, who shot our sergeant?’

Saw Caz’s eyes shift and knew, bingo, the bastard knew. Roberts was astonished, he knew Caz had access to information that others could only dream of but this fast? He kept his face in neutral as Caz extended his sympathy, saying how much he respected the sergeant and Roberts let him ramble on for a few minutes, then snarled:

‘I asked you a question?’

Caz looked at Andrews, a lecherous smile building, asked:

‘There is a reward, no, I mean, a shot policeman, this is major event.’

Roberts had to bite down on his desire to reach over and throttle the snitch. He said:

‘Oh yeah. You help bring in a cop shooter, you’re talking major recompense.’

Caz had been promised rewards before and usually ended up with a sore jaw after Brant had dished out his form of compensation. Caz sat back, said:

‘I thought so, so how about we have a little good faith cash up front?’

Roberts sighed, Jesus, he was tired, tired of having to deal with scum, said:

‘You give me the name, you’ll be paid. You know how it works.’

Caz weighed his options then on impulse, gave it up, said:

‘Terry Dunne, he’s the one did the shooting.’

Andrews was amazed, could it be so easy, you went to a snitch and he solved your case.

Roberts asked:

‘And this piece of work, where do we find him?’

Caz laughed, not a pretty sound, more like a cackle, asked:

‘Am I to do all your work, Chief Inspector? He’s local, but that’s all I know.’

Roberts mobile shrilled and he stood up, said:

‘I’ll take this outside.’

Andrews wasn’t wild about being left alone with the low-life and was even more bothered when Caz gave her his full-wattage smile, a blend of malice and lust, he asked:

‘You like dancing, chiquita?’

She wasn’t going to get into a conversation with this creep, snapped:

‘No.’

He loved it, leaned over, his hand poised to touch hers, said:

‘You have not been with the maestro, I meet you Saturday night, I take you the Crystal, show you some steps, and after, ah… after, mi bonita, I show you some moves you never forget.’

Andrews stomped his left foot, hard, and he reeled back, his face contorted in agony and rage, spat:

‘Cunt… puta, you are a lesbian, no?’

Roberts was back and seeing Caz’s pain, smiled, said:

‘I see you guys hit it off.’

Andrews said:

‘I showed him some moves.’

Roberts liked it, a lot, said:

‘Let’s move. See if Mr Dunne is currently available.’

Caz, massaging his left foot, demanded:

‘What about my money?’

Roberts was already moving, said:

‘Cheque’s already in the mail.’

Caz swore for the hundredth time. He was definitely getting into a new line of work, and the puta, he’d find a way to settle with her. Roberts he couldn’t touch but her, the bitch, what was she? A constable… ha… a nothing and he felt better at the various ways he could fuck with her.

Outside, Roberts stood for a moment, watching the traffic till Andrews went:

‘Sir?’

It was like he’d forgotten she was there, he said:

‘What?’

She was anxious to get moving, get this Terry Dunne before the word got out. They brought him in, it was a career maker, a white arrest in fact. The mythical Holy Grail of policework, the case that made you golden. She said:

‘Shouldn’t we be moving, get this Terry Dunne before he goes to ground.’

Roberts shoulders slumped, he said:

‘Oh our Mr Dunne isn’t going anywhere.’

She was surprised, asked:

‘You know where he is?’

She was beginning to understand why Roberts was a chief inspector. He looked at her, said:

‘He’s in the morgue.’

She didn’t know what to make of that and Roberts, seeing her confusion, said:

‘He was found on Canary Wharf, three bullets in the gut, two in the head.’

Was the case over then she wondered and, as if reading her mind, Roberts said:

‘It means he fucked up so they terminated his employment, next time, it will a more serious effort.’

She echoed:

‘Next time.’

Roberts was heading towards the car, said:

‘The next time they take a run at Brant.’

Roberts let her do the driving and seemed sunk in gloom, she asked:

‘Where to now, sir?’

He didn’t raise his head, said:

‘Good question.’

Backat the station, Roberts told her to go the canteen, get some teas, and bring them back to his office. She was going to protest that she was a policewoman, getting tea was not her job, but felt it wouldn’t be the best time to bring it up. So, with sarcasm barely concealed, she asked:

‘And how would Sir like it?’

Without missing a beat, he said:

‘Quickly.’

Seething, she was en route when the notice board caught her attention, the results of the sergeants’ exams were posted and she scrolled the names, saw Falls had made it, muttered:

‘That’s all I need.’

She knew Falls had failed twice already and this would have been her last shot, Andrews was confident Falls would fail again. But the cow had passed. The chances of Andrews making that rank were out the window now. Two female sergeants in the same station.

Yeah, like that was ever going to happen.

The whole day was down the toilet and she was running errands, like some airhead secretary. She’d have to rethink her whole strategy, get her name back up there in lights.

The worst part was, when she ran into Falls, she was going to have to do that whole gushing delighted gig, act like she was over the bleeding moon. She could feel bile in her throat. A passing cop said:

‘The chief inspector wants to know if you’re brewing the tea yourself, you’d need to show a bit more initative.’

Words failed her.

Roberts rang the hospital, got the update on Brant, not only was the sergeant sitting up but complaining. Roberts had arranged for two armed cops to be on duty at Brant’s door.

Brant, on hearing the names of the two officers assigned, had said:

‘Those fucks are likely to shoot me themselves.’

If he kept whining, Roberts might take a shot too. He’d put the phone down, roared:

‘Where’s me bloody tea?’

The phone shrilled again and he snapped up the receiver, barked:

‘What?’

Heard:

‘Tut, tut, Chief Inspector, is that any way to answer a call?’

The posh bastard, the one who’d called about shooting Brant, Roberts counted to ten, then said:

‘Tell me you want to give yourself up.’

Heard that eerie cackle, like some crazed banshee, the guy said:

‘Here I am, doing your work for you, and I don’t detect… sorry, no pun intended, I don’t sense any gratitude.’

Andrews came in, put the tea on his desk, spilling a part on his files. He glared at her and she scarpered. He returned his attention to the call, asked:

‘Sorry, mate, what am I supposed to be grateful for?’

A moment’s hesitation, then:

‘Don’t be coy, Inspector, Canary Wharf… ring any bells?’

Roberts decided to go with it, said:

‘We discovered the body of a man there, so?’

A sound of irritation, then:

‘Don’t play silly buggers with me, Inspector, I’m trying to keep you in… how do they term it… ah yes, in the loop, but you’re trying my patience.’

Roberts felt a small victory. He’d annoyed the bastard, get him angry, he’d got careless. He said:

‘Are you telling me the man we found is connected to the shooting of Sergeant Brant?’

The guy’s voice had upped an octave, and he said:

‘Very good, Inspector. Yes, he was the shooter, if a rather poor one, so I felt it best to terminate his contract.’

Roberts chanced a gulp of tea, it burned like a mother, made him near retch and… no fucking sugar. He’d have Andrews’s arse, he asked:

‘You’re telling me you killed him, is that what you’re saying?’

‘Bravo, Inspector, you’re finally on the same page.’

This was one of those expressions that got up Roberts’s nose, nearly as bad as… singing from the same hymn sheet.

Roberts asked:

‘And now, where we do go from here?’

Another chuckle and the guy said.

‘You’re familiar with the expression, if at first…?’

Roberts felt a surge of adrenaline, asked:

‘You’re not seriously going to try again?’

As he said it, the voice said:

‘See, we’re singing from the same hymn sheet.’

Click.

He was gone.