Ammunition

15

The building housing Rodney Lewis’s office was impressive in that English mode. Let you know in an understated fashion that here be mega bucks and managed to convey that, unless you had lots of cash, you were way off track. Lewis’s office was spacious, bright, with a severe secretary sitting behind an impressive desk. Porter had asked a few moments before:

‘How’d you want to play this?’

Brant, not breaking stride, asked:

‘Play what? Talk right for fuck’s sake.’

Porter explained did they want to do the tried and familiar route of good cop/bad cop?

Brant said:

‘Only if I get to play the good cop, I’m tired of always being the hard arse.’

Porter wanted to shout:

‘How do you think we feel?’

He said:

‘Okay, make a nice change.’

The secretary was not pleased to see them, Porter asked if they might have a word with Mr Rodney Lewis? Her expression said that pigs might fly, she snapped:

‘Do you have an appointment? Mr Lewis is a very busy man.’

Porter was gearing up to be the hard arse when Brant said:

‘Tell him the cops are here, in connection with his shooting of a policeman.’

She was stunned and Porter stared, mouth open at Brant, Brant said to him:

‘Close your mouth, you look like a half-wit.’

The secretary went to the back of the office, disappeared behind an oak door, Brant said:

‘Probably grabbing a smoke.’

Porter was furious, accused:

‘What happened to our deal?’

Brant was pocketing some pens from the secretary’s desk, said:

‘You think that was bad? Man, that’s me real mellow side.’

The secretary was back, said:

‘Mr Lewis will see you now, he’s the last door on the right.’

Brant winked at her and they headed for the office. Porter was about to knock, but Brant just opened the door, strode in.

Rodney Lewis had one of those ear things that lets you talk on the mobile, hands free, he was in his late forties, dressed in pinstripe, with a full head of coiffed grey hair. He was carrying plenty of weight, the kind that came from good food, and he had sharp dark eyes that watched them with a vague disinterest. What he mostly conveyed was confidence and money, oodles of both. A slight smile played on his lower lip, he asked:

‘Gentlemen, to what do I owe the pleasure of the visit?’

Porter couldn’t swear but he sure sounded like the guy on the tape, the rich, posh accent, with arrogance riding point. Brant slumped into a chair, on Lewis’s right, Porter stayed standing. Brant asked:

‘Why’d you shoot me?’

Lewis sat stock still for a moment, then recovered, reached for his phone, said directly to Porter:

‘I think we better get my lawyer in on this.’

Porter looked at Brant, who, naturally, was lighting a cig, then he said:

‘There’s no need, sir. We were just wondering if you could perhaps help us with the shooting of a police officer?’

Lewis watched Brant for a minute, then said:

‘Of course, Sergeant Brant, who was involved in the death of my brother, and you think what? That this was my revenge?’

Brant continued to say nothing, just smoked like his life depended on it, Porter tried:

‘You can appreciate, sir, that we have to look at everybody who might harbour a grudge towards the sergeant.’

Lewis began to punch numbers into the phone and Porter said:

‘Well, thank you for your time, sir, we’ll be off now, and sorry for the inconvenience.’

Porter didn’t know what Brant might do, but to his surprise and considerable relief, Brant stood up, leaned over the desk, and dropped his cig in Lewis’s cup of coffee. Then they were at the door and Porter realized he was sweating, Brant turned back, asked:

‘How come a fuck like you, you got all this money, you can’t find somebody to shoot straight?’

Lewis locked eyes with Brant, said:

‘I hope you enjoyed your little game, Sergeant. By tomorrow, I’ll have your warrant card. Your days of aggression are over.’

Brant seemed like he might move back towards Lewis and Porter was ready to prevent that, Brant said:

‘Your brother, the rapist, he was a piece of shit, but you, you’re something even worse.’

When they were outside the building, Porter launched:

‘The fuck is the matter with you? I thought we’d agreed on the good cop routine for you?’

Brant moved towards their car, said:

‘That was my good cop. If I’d been the other, Lewis would be hitting the pavement about now.’

He looked up the building, asked:

‘What is it, ten stories? He came out the window, you think that’d do it?’

Porter threw up his arms in disgust, got in the car, Brant was on his mobile phone and waited a moment, said:

‘And a good afternoon to you, love your show, I was wondering if you could tell me who wrote ‘First Cut’?’

He nodded, cut the connection, said:

‘You owe me twenty quid.’

Porter sighed, a sigh that contained all the times that Brant had exasperated him, asked:

‘What now?’

Brant said in a perfect tone of P. G. Wodehouse:

‘Home, Jeeves, home.’