Ammunition

2

When PC McDonald heard Brant had been shot, he nearly punched the air, wanted to shout:

‘Fucking brilliant.’

But he was in the police canteen and had to act like the others, pretend to be shocked, outraged, jumping to his feet, ready to seek out the shooter. He was shocked all right, couldn’t believe that someone had finally got Brant. He hated that bastard with all his heart. There’d been a time, Jesus, how long ago? McDonald had been golden, the kid on the way up, earmarked by the Super as his boy. All he had to do, simple really, was ensure that Brant got fucked and good.

Piece of cake.

Alas, piece of very poisoned cake.

Brant was such a wild card, such a maverick, that all you had to do was watch him, let the proof fall into your lap, bingo, he was gone. But Brant got wind of it, and ever since, McDonald’s career was in the toilet. Fuckup followed fuckup and always, behind each new disaster was the smirk of Brant. It culminated in a last-ditch effort to be a hero and yeah, that went south and worse, McDonald got shot. The Met were in dire straits and desperately needed good press so they managed to have McDonald appear some sort of half-arsed hero, and though he kept his job, he was a figure of derision to the others. A leper in blue, to be avoided, and the Super, just buying time till he quietly dumped him.

Meantime, he was drawing all the shite assignments and like, who was he gonna call? The duties usually given to rookies were now thrown to him. His current brief? Standing outside shopping centres, giving directions to pissed-off pedestrians. He needed something major, something biblical, to turn his career around, but for the life of him, he couldn’t come up with anything. Nigh resigned to his fate, he’d begun looking at security guard advertisements, truly, the bottom rung of a cop’s descent into hell.

WPC Andrews was the exact opposite of McDonald. She was relatively new, had gotten the break he’d dreamed about, she’d been a reluctant hero, and even Falls, who cut slack for nobody, seemed to almost like her. On hearing about Brant, she began to weep, she still bought the crap, how the downing of one of their own diminished them all. She actually voiced this to Chief Inspector Roberts, who looked at her like she was mad. She put this down to shock, she knew how close he was to Brant.

Close!

That would be stretching it. They had history, lots of it, primarily bad, but they were connected, Brant continually managed to amaze Roberts, the risks he took, his whole attitude to the world fascinated and appalled Roberts. The chief inspector stared at Andrews, her fresh face, the whole gung ho spirit, he wanted to tell her he wasn’t surprised Brant had been shot, simply dismayed it had taken so long. You danced on the edge like Brant did, they were going to get you, and that was just the good guys.

He asked:

‘I’m on my way over to the hospital. You want a lift?’

She was delighted. They could share and bond, form a special relationship born of grief and empathy, and he wasn’t unattractive, plus, it would add to her cred, heighten her profile.

They were on their way out when Foley, the desk sergeant, called Roberts, who snapped:

‘Not now, for heaven’s sake, Brant has been shot.’

Foley wanted to protest:

‘Hey, don’t bite my bloody head off. You think I don’t hurt, don’t I bleed too, am I not human?’

He’d recently seen The Elephant Man and had been profoundly affected. There was other whiny stuff he wanted to say but felt it wouldn’t fly, he’d keep it for his wife and, who knew, he might even get another of them pity shags. Instead, he adopted his officious tone, let the bastard know he knew what was important, said:

‘I wouldn’t, of course, have bothered you, sir, at such a moment… ’

Paused.

Let the hard leak all over the words, then:

‘But the caller said he had information on the shooting.’

Roberts looked like he might hit him, and the sergeant backed off a little. Roberts barked:

‘There isn’t anyone else in the whole station to take the call? Every nutter in South-East London is going to be on the blower claiming he did it. Surely you’re capable of taking a message your own self, you’ve been sat on yer arse long enough to know.’

The slur of being a desk jockey was not lost, and the sergeant let that hang for a moment then said, in an icy voice:

‘Yes sir, and I wouldn’t have bothered you in your moment of tremendous urgency, but the caller did specify you by name and my years of sitting on my… rear… tell me he’s genuine.’

He was well pleased with this, felt it said:

‘Fuck you, Jack, and proper.’

Roberts sighed, brushed past the sergeant, grabbed the phone, spat:

‘This is Roberts.’

Heard:

‘So terribly loath to bother you at a time of obviously deep distress and trauma.’

The voice was rich, cultured, what used to be called a BBC accent, not to mention extremely posh. It immediately got up Roberts’s nose. He demanded:

‘You have information on a shooting?’

His impatience, testiness, was palpable and answered by a full chuckle, it wasn’t laughter, no, it was the sound of someone who was delighted at the response. He mimicked Roberts:

‘ “ A shooting.” You jest, my good fellow. Surely it’s the shooting, or am I overrating the value of our esteemed Detective Sergeant Brant?’

Roberts was gripping the receiver so hard it hurt the palm of his hand. He tried to loosen up in every sense, asked:

‘You have information, is that right?’

Again, the chuckle, a real fun guy, then:

‘Well, old bean, it’s not a social call, pleasurable as that would no doubt be, this is indeed a call with information. Might there be a financial incentive for me to, as they say, “spill the beans.”’

Roberts was signalling for the desk sergeant to get a trace on the call. The sergeant ignored him, elected not to know what Roberts meant with his furious hand gestures. See how he liked to be fucked with.

Roberts said into the phone:

‘Any citizen helping the police will be entitled to the full gratitude of the Met?’

Even Roberts knew this sounded like a crock, and the guy said:

‘Tut tut, Chief Inspector, the party line, what? I’ll expect a more enlightened approach when next I call.’

Roberts nigh panicked, rushed:

‘What’s the information? How do I know you’re not just some nut case?’

Silence and Roberts thought the guy was gone, then:

‘You’ll discover the weapon was a Browning Automatic, the full clip was… employed… and my deepest apologies for the somewhat… how shall we say, scatter-gun theatrics, but good help is so hard to find, I’m sure you have similar difficulties with staff. If a next time is required, I shall try to ensure a little more finesse.’

Roberts realised he was sweating, tried:

‘ “Next time.” What the hell does that mean?’

There was a burst of static on the line, then the guy said:

‘if perchance our beloved Sergeant Brant hasn’t cashed in his chips, then we shall have to try again, persistence being the quality we can all aspire to. For now, tootle-pip.’

Roberts wanted to scream, ’ tootle-pip ’? Who the fuck talked like that outside of the pages of a P. G. Wodehouse novel. He gasped:

‘But why, why Sergeant Brant?’

A full baritone laugh, then:

‘Your attempts to keep me on the line are admirable if a tad amateurish, but as to why, really, Chief Inspector, can you honestly think of anyone who doesn’t want to shoot the said misfortunate?’

Click.

The bastard was gone.

Roberts whirled round to the desk jockey, shouted:

‘Did you trace him?’

The sergeant asked:

‘Oh, did you want a trace?’

Roberts nearly went over the desk, reined it in a bit, said:

‘That’s what my bloody hand signals were for, you moron.’

The sergeant, not missing a beat, said:

‘Ah, I thought you were asking for tea? Speaking of which, shall I order you up a nice cuppa, you seem a touch overwrought?’

Roberts spun on his heel, snapped at Andrews:

‘What are you standing around for, bring the damn car.’

Andrews felt it was a bit ripe to take it out on her, but kept her thoughts to herself.

Roberts comforted himself with the thought that all calls into the station were recorded as a matter of course and maybe they’d get something off those. He ordered the desk guy to have the tapes in his office… pronto.

The desk sergeant muttered:

’Seig Heil.’