Ammunition

25

As Falls stormed into the station, the cops got one look at her enraged expression and got out of her way.

Real fast.

Andrews, still smarting about the weight quip, got in her path and was literally shouldered aside.

The desk sergeant, never a Falls groupie, whispered:

‘On the rag, eh.’

If she’d heard that, he’d have eaten it.

Count on it

But perhaps there is karma, some kind of cosmic balance, as later that evening, watching his beloved Liverpool beat the shite outta Newcastle United, his telly blew up.

Go figure.

Falls didn’t knock on Roberts’s door, just barged in and before he could mutter:

‘What the… ’

She launched.

‘Well, Chief Inspector, I made the call, as you ordered, to McDonald, remember… he’s a cop.’

She paused, was that… is a cop or… was?

Roberts feigned indifference, his face showing, shit happens, he asked:

‘He want any help from you?’

She gave a smile, if a blend of rage and murderous intent can produce such, said:

‘I told him to run.’

Roberts gave a nasty chuckle and Falls wondered how she’d ever liked this prick. He said:

‘He’d be wise to take it.’

She had to physically rein herself in, a wave of bile rose in her gut, and she said, spinning on her heel:

‘Be a tad difficult with a fucking bullet in his skull.’

And she stormed out, slamming the door with all her might, hailed a cab, said to the driver:

‘Take me to The Clapham Arms.’

He wasn’t all that sure where it was, but something told him not to ask. He’d figure it out.

There were no smoking decals all over the taxi and as she put a cig between her lips, he ventured:

‘Wanna light?’