Blitz

Radnor Bowen was in the dumps after his meeting with Brant. He’d been so hopeful about his role as a snitch, believing it to be lucrative and reasonably safe. His knee still hurt from where Brant had manipulated him. The hope of decent payoff had been blown.

Radnor knew — all his instincts said so — that the cop killer was the case to break. There had to be serious money in it. He’d felt so down he almost didn’t go to meet his contact: the guy from the gym he’d told Brant about, who knew a psycho who’d bragged about ‘dealing with the police’. Radnor went because he had nothing else going and because he couldn’t let go. There had to be an angle somewhere in this.

The guy, part-owner of the gym, was called Jimmy. He’d a bald patch, which he combed over, and a growing beer gut. Radnor thought he was a poor advertisement for his business. Not that he’d ever say so. Rule one of the ‘Snitch’s Handbook’ was be ingratiating. Jimmy must have read his mind. He patted the stomach, said,

‘Sign of prosperity, you know.’

Yeah, right.

They were in the Oval pub just after lunch, when trade hits a lull. So quiet that they could hear from the street:

‘Big Issue, get yer Big Issue, help the homeless.’

Jimmy smiled, said,

‘I’ll have a pint of bitter and a ploughman’s.’

Radnor got these, resenting the cost, cursing himself for this fool’s errand. He had half a shandy, Jimmy dug into his food, said,

‘So you want to know the head-case who near killed the gay guy?’

Radnor tried not to show too much interest lest money be mentioned. Jimmy was chewing with energy, said,

‘I told all this to the copper who came by.’

Radnor knew who that was, nodded and Jimmy continued,

‘A thick bastard, name of Brant. The fuck got a year’s membership and wanted a free tracksuit as well.’

‘What was the bloke’s name who beat up the gay?’

‘All in good time, Radnor. What’s your hurry?’

He had to endure a further half hour listening to the difficulties of running a gym until, finally, Jimmy said:

‘Barry Weiss. Here, I wrote down his address. I haven’t seen him since. Not that I want to, he was definitely off the wall. Gave me the creeps, if you want to know the truth. Always smiling and if I know one thing, it’s that nothing’s that amusing. Our female members were always complaining about him.’

Radnor put the address in his pocket, acting as if it were of no consequence. Jimmy gave him an elbow in the ribs, said,

‘So, you going to join the gym or what?’

Having nothing better to do, Radnor had gone to the address and hung around. He was rewarded when Brant and Porter emerged, looking less than happy. A little later, a man came out; tall, with short blond hair, athletic build... and smiling. Radnor muttered,

‘Hello, Mr Weiss.’

His heart rate had increased, the old surge of elation he’d had before he broke into a house. Radnor knew this guy was dirty. After thirty years in prison, he knew that facial expression, had seen it a hundred times in the yard — the smirk of someone who’s put a shiv in a man from behind. What the smirk mostly said was ‘I want you to know what I did and how much I enjoyed it.’

Grade-A psycho.

Radnor decided to follow him, carefully. Barry Weiss was taking no chances, changed direction a number of times as if he suspected a tail. Then hopped on a bus. Radnor barely made it. Each time they stopped, Radnor had to scan the path for Weiss, but he was getting a kick out of it. If the guy was going to this trouble, he was hiding something. Then the thought hit Radnor: Jesus, what if he’s going to kill someone now?

Radnor had no illusions about heroics, no scenario of him tackling a well-built bloke like that. He’d have to make it up as he went along. Caught up in this, he nearly missed Barry getting off at Waterloo, had to scramble and as the bus moved off, the conductor shouted,

‘No alighting when we’re in motion.’

Radnor near twisted his ankle as he hopped from the bus. When he arrived at the station concourse, his heart sank. He’d lost him. Fuck, fuck, fuck. But then Radnor saw him, near the lockers. Radnor moved fast, ignoring the ache in his knee. Barry was opening a locker.

Radnor did a scan of the numbers: 68, okay. Now Barry was taking out a wallet, gazing at it, then putting it in his pocket, shutting the locker. Moving away.

Radnor passed by 68 and saw that the lock wasn’t going to be a problem. He’d broken into houses with a hundred times that security. Saw Barry ordering coffee, chatting with the assistant, Radnor thought: Mr Affability.

Then he saw the assistant’s face register horror and Barry took a seat, a satisfied smirk in place. Confirmed Radnor’s impression of serious derangement. Ten minutes later, Barry was up and moving through the crowds, leaving the station. Radnor headed for the coffee shop, ordered an espresso. The girl still seemed shaken. Radnor, in his best non-threatening accent, asked,

‘Are you all right, dear?’

She looked round, ensuring Barry was gone, said,

‘A customer... showed me a photo of his family, three lovely children and his wife. When I admired them, he said they were all dead.’

‘Oh, you poor girl, what an awful ordeal.’

Then she shook herself as if ridding herself physically of Barry’s presence, said,

‘This will sound terrible but I... I didn’t believe him, isn’t that awful? I mean, I think he deliberately tried to scare me.’

Radnor wondered where they were on that espresso, the aroma from the beans had awoken a passion for a caffeine hit. He said,

‘There are some weird people around, you have to be careful.’

‘I will, you’re very kind. What did you say you wanted, cappuccino?’

‘No, double espresso, if you please.’

She glanced around again, said in a conspiratorial tone,

‘I’ll only charge you for a single, don’t say anything.’

‘My dear, I won’t breathe a word.’

Sipping the coffee, he felt that the omens were good, improving by the minute. He thought: See, Brant. See what good manners and breeding achieve?

He felt as if he actually were from Hampstead.

Returning to Waterloo the next day, he gave the coffee shop a wide berth. He didn’t want to adopt the damn girl. In his pocket, he had his ‘Slim Jim’: state-of-the-art tools that were light, flexible and invaluable. Though he had turned his back on his previous profession, he kept the implements of his trade. Some things were too valuable to relinquish. Approaching locker 68, he kept his face in neutral. CCTV cameras were everywhere and he didn’t want to alert any watcher.

Taking the tools from his pocket, he used his right shoulder as a block to passers-by. After three minutes the door opened. A surge of pride in his abilities coursed through Radnor’s body. He enjoyed the moment, then looked inside the locker. For a second, he didn’t quite grasp what he saw, then exhaled a deep breath, said,

‘Bingo.’

The phone rang and Dunphy grabbed it. He hadn’t heard from ‘The Blitz’ for a few days and hoped he hadn’t retired, just when the story was reaching its zenith. He said,

‘Yes?’

‘Harold Dunphy?

‘Yes?’

‘The Harold Dunphy? The crime reporter.’

Dunphy was well pleased. This was the type of recognition he’d been craving. Maybe he’d won an award, said,

‘One and the same.’

Felt this was a good reply, confident and assertive, the answer of a guy who deserved prizes.

‘Would you like to know who “The Blitz” is?’

Dunphy reached for his cigarettes, got one going, saw a tremor in his fingers, kept his voice low, said,

‘That would be good.’

‘Or, Mr Dunphy... how would you like to be the man who nails the fucker?’

Dunphy, inured to profanity, was taken aback. Until then the voice had been cultivated, modulated, Hampstead even, so the obscenity came as a shock. It confirmed Dunphy’s instinct that it was genuine. When toffs cursed, it was for a good reason. He said,

‘It would be an honour to bring him down.’

A pause and he wondered if he’d given the wrong answer, then:

‘Well, Mr Dunphy, you have a think about how much of an honour it would be. In particular, how much you’d be willing to pay for such a privilege...’

‘Oh.’

‘Come, come, Mr Dunphy, did you think this was a citizen doing his bit?’

‘I guess not.’

Click.

Falls wore a heavy black coat, buttoned to the chin. She pulled a white cap down over her hair. As she got into the car, Nelson gave her a quizzical look. She snapped,

‘What?’

‘Nothing, the coat... it’s a good choice.’

‘Like you’d know.’

As they pulled away, he asked,

‘You want me to turn on the radio?’

‘Take a wild guess.’

He left the radio off. The silence for the rest of the trip was lethal. Nelson ran through a number of topics he might broach but dismissed them all. Falls stared straight ahead, a red rose clutched in her fingers. All he hoped was she wouldn’t want to cast it in the grave. The only concession she’d given was to forego the church ceremony and just meet the funeral party at the graveyard. Nelson parked at the gates, said,

‘Maybe we should do the next bit on foot.’

For answer, she got out. They walked along a gravel path, their shoes crunching in the air. A large crowd was gathered, British National Party members in heavy attendance. A priest was intoning:

‘Man has but a short time to live and is full of misery.’

Or words to that dire effect.

Nelson wanted to say,

‘Cheerful bugger.’

But Falls’ expression didn’t encourage him.

They stood to the side of what appeared to be the principal mourners. A shabby couple, looking crushed, had to be the parents. Two BNP members helped the gravediggers lower the coffin. Then Falls stepped forward, laid the rose on top and moved quickly back. When the coffin was released, the priest said another few words and then the crowd began to disperse. Falls approached the parents, began,

‘Your son was...’

The father put out his hand, to shield his wife from her, finished Falls’ sentence with,

‘No friend of the likes of you.’

And they turned, walked quickly away. Nelson grabbed Falls’ arm, led her back to the car. He heard,

‘Hey!’

And turned to see two skinheads approaching. He moved in front of Falls, braced himself. They had armbands with BNP on them. Falls noted with sadness how young and good-looking they were, though hate was already marring the freshness of their pallor. She could feel the hatred like a cold wave rolling towards her. They stopped a foot from Nelson, one of them put out his hand, threw the crumpled rose on the ground, said,

‘We don’t take shit from niggers.’

Nelson started to spring but she held him back.

The second one said,

‘That black cunt got our comrade killed.’

And he spat, the spittle landing on the sleeve of her coat. Then they gave the Hitler salute and took off. Nelson let out his breath slowly, bent to retrieve the flower. She snapped,

‘Leave it, it’s contaminated.’

In the car, as they pulled away, she said,

‘Stop at The Cricketers.’

‘Okay.’

Took him a while to park and he could sense her impatience. As they got out of the cat, he said,

‘You want to get some breakfast first?’

But she was already heading for the pub. Caught her up as she reached the counter. She ordered:

‘Two large whiskies.’

Nelson looked at the guy then at Falls, said,

‘I think I’ll have coffee.’

‘Then order it, these are for me.’

When the drinks came, she poured both into one glass, moved to a table. The barman, a sympathetic expression on his face, asked,

‘A coffee?’

‘Yeah.’

Nelson was tempted to simply turn on his heel and take off. Sighing, he headed for her table and she said,

‘Don’t sit.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve done your chaperone jaunt, now you can fuck off.’

‘Falls, we need to talk.’

‘Oh yeah, about what? Italian restaurants, or maybe how much of a man you are? How you treat a woman with respect and piss off the first night?’

He put the coffee down, said,

‘If that’s what you want. I’ll call you, maybe?’

‘I’ve been called enough for one day.’

As Nelson headed out, the barman raised his eyes to heaven.

McDonald had to drag himself to work. He felt shattered. The hardboiled stance had deserted him as soon as the geek went out the window. How Brant maintained that role day in, day out, was a mystery. His own plan to track Brant, bring him down, was undergoing a re-appraisal. If Brant had done similar acts and was still a hard-ass, then he was a fucking ice man. McDonald shuddered when he thought of his pursuit of him. Jesus, what madness. Brant would have thrown him out the window and had takeaway chips after.

All night, McDonald had twisted in his bed. Each snatch of sleep brought the geek, covered in blood, his neck grotesquely altered. McDonald wondered if he’d ever sleep again. Plus, when the body was discovered, there’d be an investigation. Christ, what if he was caught? His fingerprints had to be all over the flat... and on the geek’s glasses. He tried to shut down that line of speculation.

By the time he got to the station, he was worn out. The desk sergeant barked,

‘What have you been at?’

Guilt danced all over him: did they know already? He stammered,

‘W-h-h-hat?’

‘Look at you, you have black circles under your eyes. What, were you clubbing?’

‘No... I...’

‘You’ll need to get a grip, constable. Partying till the small hours is not a smart move if you’ve any ambition.’

‘Yes, sarge.’

‘You’re for it this morning.’

‘Oh?’

‘Chief Inspector Roberts has been screaming for you. You’re lucky to be with him, he’s covered in glory these days.’

‘Lucky? Yes, I’m lucky.’

‘But not for much longer if you don’t get your head out of your arse. Don’t stand there like a prick, get going.’

He did.

Knocking on the door of Roberts office, he considered going,

‘Argh...’

And hightailing it out of the station. Heard,

‘Come in.’

Roberts was the picture of activity — fresh, crisp and energised. He asked,

‘So, what happened?’

‘Happened, sir?’

‘At the bloody post office. You staked it out, didn’t you?’

‘Oh yes, sir, they were very helpful, provided a counter where I could observe without being seen.’

‘And...?’

‘And... ahm... nothing.’

Roberts shot to his feet.

‘Nothing? Then how come another pensioner was attacked last night? And guess what, in a building that’s not a bloody spit from the post office.’

Porter alighted from the cab outside Barkers deparment store. He had offered to pick up Brant who’d said,

‘No, I’ll be outside the church, having a smoke.’

He was.

But not alone. By his side was a woman. She was in her late thirties with straggly blonde hair, a very short mini and a face that had been walloped often. A black bomber jacket barely contained her huge breasts. Brant gave a wry smile. He was wearing a bespoke suit that said ‘cash or blackmail’, probably both. A white rose in his lapel gave a lopsided slant to the jacket. He said,

‘This is Kim.’

She held out her hand, said,

‘Charmed, I’m sure.’

Porter shook her hand, noting the rough feel. He said,

‘We’d better go in.’

The ceremony was nearly over, the church crammed. Brant whispered,

‘Jeez, they’re in some kind of hurry, yeah?’

The groom was saying,

‘Yes, I do.’

From Porter’s position, the groom looked old, very old. In contrast to the bride, dressed in white, who appeared scarcely out of her twenties. Brant leered at Porter, let his tongue loll from the side of his mouth. After the service, the newlyweds posed for photos outside the church. Later, they’d discover — to their horror — that Kim and Brant had crept into the pictures. Porter moved forward, congratulated his father then motioned to Brant and said,

‘Dad, this is Sergeant Brant.’

Nash senior was staring at Kim and asked,

‘Is this Mrs Brant?’

Brant, eying the bride, seemed not to have heard but then turned, said,

‘No, she’s a hooker.’

Nash swallowed, composed himself, said to Porter,

‘I see, well, we must away. See you at the reception, with your... ahm... colleague.’

The Kensington Hotel was a short walk from the church. Kim moved to Porter’s side with Brant walking point, she asked,

‘The bloke who got married, is he really, like, your old man?’

‘Yes, he is.’

He could smell her perfume and it was making him dizzy. Porter realised he couldn’t think straight. For one awful moment, he felt she was going to link his arm. Now she asked,

‘And your mum, doesn’t she, like... mind?’

He laughed out loud, more from hysteria than humour. Brant said,

‘See, Porter — you’re having yourself a time.’

Porter glared, said,

‘I’ll talk to you later.’

Then back to Kim, answered,

‘My mother is dead.’

‘Oh, that’s handy.’

Then she giggled, put her hand to her mouth, said,

‘Oh my God, I didn’t mean...’

‘It’s okay. How did you...’ — he was going to say hook up with — ‘...meet Sergeant Brant?’

More giggles, then:

‘He found my name in a phone booth.’

Whatever else, Porter admired her total lack of shame. They’d got to the hotel and she said,

‘I’d love a Babycham, but not many places sell them these days. Do you remember them?’

‘Yes, I do.’

She settled for a vodka and white. Brant had moved into the crowd and Porter wondered if he’d be stuck with Kim for the day. She gave him an intense look, said,

‘Don’t worry, I won’t be hanging out of you.’

‘I didn’t think...’

‘Yes, you did. Men are so obvious. If they get crossed, their faces get that tantrum expression.’

Her eyes scanned the crowd and she said,

‘Believe me, I’m never alone long in a hotel.’

The dinner was the usual rip-off: limp chicken and salad, followed by dead dessert. No one was complaining, thanks mainly to the gallons of wine that were at hand. Then the speeches began, droning on for over an hour. Finally, Nash senior thanked his guests, near gushed about his beautiful bride and made no mention of his son. Porter checked his watch. Ten minutes tops, then he was leaving.

Brant was chatting to the barman when Porter’s father approached, said,

‘Let me get you a drink, Sergeant.’

‘Sure, a scotch will do it.’

They got that and Brant said,

‘Chin chin, congratulations and all that.’

Nash was staring, said,

‘You seem an unlikely person to be a friend of... my son?’

‘How would you know?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I could be wrong but I’d say you know fuck all about your son.’

Nash tensed, his body language moving into attack mode. Brant smiled and Nash willed himself to ease down, said,

‘You surprise me, Sergeant, I wouldn’t have taken you for a fag hag.’

Brant signalled to the barman for refills, asked,

‘You’ll be on that Viagra, yeah?’

Nash forced himself to smile though rage suffused him, said,

‘That’s a cheap shot, Sergeant.’

Brant waved a hand towards the crowd, said,

‘Despite the flash hotel, you’re a cheap kind of guy.’

Nash knew he should just walk away. He’d never be able to score points with this animal but a stubbornness kept him there and he tried another tack, said,

‘I’ve been in business for a lot of years, I’m a pretty good judge of people. You ever get tired of being a flatfoot, you’d do well to consider the private sector.’

Brant finished his drink, took a step away from the bar, asked,

‘Are you offering me a job?’

‘A man like you, Sergeant, you’d do well.’

Brant seemed to be considering it and Nash decided to sweeten the pot, said,

‘I’d help you find accommodation on this side of the river. You’d like it over here.’

‘Tell you what, you ask anyone, they’ll tell you. I’m an arseshole, but work for you? Even I’m not that big an asshole.’

Radnor had arranged to meet Dunphy at Waterloo, instructed,

‘Wait in the station bar, have a copy of The Tabloid with you.’

‘How do I know you’ll show?’

‘You bring the money, I’ll show.’

Dunphy had discussed it with the editor who’d said,

‘Do whatever it takes to clinch this, don’t fuck it up.’

He was determined not to. The prospect of catching ‘The Blitz’ made his heart pound. If he played this right, he could be hearing from the quality papers, not to mention the perks. Sitting at the bar in Waterloo, he spread The Tabloid on the table, tapped the envelope in his pocket, a thick wad of notes there.

A man approached, wearing an old Crombie and a cravat. He was smiling, Dunphy asked,

‘You’re...?’

‘The man you were expecting.’

He sat and Dunphy asked,

‘What do I call you?’

‘Your ticket to ride. Did you bring the money?’

Dunphy tapped his pocket, asked,

‘What have you got for me?’

‘Let’s go, it’s a visual.’

Radnor led the way to the lockers. Dunphy’s excitement was building. Radnor glanced around, then opened number 68, said,

‘Feast your eyes.’

Dunphy did. Then,

‘Are these items what I think they are?’

‘Trophies I believe is the term. Don’t touch anything.’

Dunphy was already composing the headline:

He asked,

‘And you know who this locker belongs to?’

‘I sure do, saw him open it myself.’

Here was the tricky part. Dunphy tried to stay cool, asked,

‘And when do I get the name?’

‘Ah, some further negotiation is required.’

A hundred yards away, Barry Weiss watched them in horror, his mind racing:

What the fuck...? It’s the reporter, the treacherous bastard, and the tall bloke, looking like some army fuck... Wait a minute, I know him... think, think, come on... yes, the Irish pub, talking to Brant. It was him; Jesus, he must have followed me.

He watched as the two men headed for the bar, to celebrate no doubt. At that moment he knew what he had to do. Kill them both. Negotiations were obviously going on, how much they’d buy and sell him for. A torrent of rage shook his body. If he’d had the Glock with him, he’d have walked right over there and settled their negotiations on the spot.

But which one to do first? Who posed the biggest threat? The snitch, yeah. He was the one with the information. Christ, it was going to be a busy day. As he watched, the snitch stood and walked to the toilet. Barry had a reckless idea and acted on it. Strode into the bar, passing right by the journalist, he could have reached out his hand, said,

‘Guess who?’

Into the toilet, where the snitch was preening himself in the mirror. Barry hit him fast, hard enough to stun him, and dragged him into a stall. The snitch’s eyes opened wide in recognition and he gasped,

‘I haven’t told him your name.’

‘Why?’

‘He hasn’t paid for it yet.’

Barry could understand that, said,

‘I’m not going to hurt you, I only do police, remember?’

A mad hope in Radnor’s eyes and Barry asked,

‘How’d you get on to me?’

The snitch seemed proud, said,

‘I got your address from the gym in Streatham, where you’d hurt a guy. Then I just followed you.’

Barry nodded, said,

‘Simple and smart.’

Then he grabbed Radnor’s head, said,

‘You’re going to have to help me on this. It’s a tight squeeze.’

Jammed his head into the bowl. It was a tight squeeze. Barry thought: This is a hell of a way to do it.

Keeping Radnor’s head under the water was a bitch and he bucked like a bronco. Barry, on his back, yelled,

‘Ride ’em cowboy.’

Took a while. Eventually Radnor grew still and Barry hauled him out, propped him against the wall, said,

‘You’re full of shit.’

Went through his pockets, found the fat envelope, peeked, went,

‘Oh yes.’

Then Radnor’s wallet, containing his ID, Travelcard and a few quid. Barry straightened, looked at Radnor then walked out of the stall. The toilet was empty but he’d have to hustle. The journalist would be wondering at the delay. He came out of the toilet, he’d reached the door of the bar when the barman caught him, said,

‘These toilets are reserved for our patrons.’

Barry kept his face averted, said,

‘Well, they’re a disgrace, all clogged up.’

He was moving, knowing he should have kept his mouth shut but the rush, ah, the fucking jolt. He went to the locker, aware of time being against him, cleaned it out, stuffing everything into a holdall. Then out to the back of the station, put the bag into a skip and managed to grab a bus to Kennington, using Radnor’s Travelcard.

The bar had been closed. Forensics were in the toilet and Radnor had been removed. Dunphy was sitting with his head in his hands, a large brandy on the table. Brant was standing and Porter was sitting, eying the journalist. He said,

‘Tell me again what happened.’

‘Jeez, how many times? Okay, he went to the toilet. When he hadn’t returned after... I don’t know, fifteen minutes, I got concerned, thought maybe he fell in.’

Brant said,

‘He did.’

Dunphy, remembering his last encounter with Brant, automatically massaged his stomach. Porter asked,

‘So then?’

‘So then! So fucking then I went to see if he was all right, but he wasn’t, someone had drowned him... killed the poor bastard in fucking Waterloo Station. How weird is that?’

Porter, making an intuitive leap, said,

‘Ah, but Mr Dunphy, you didn’t exactly come rushing out, did you?’

‘What?’

‘The barman says you were in there for at least five minutes. In fact, he was wondering if you two didn’t have a little something going on.’

Dunphy was outraged, glared at the barman who was polishing glasses, then:

‘I... looked for the money.’

‘Money?’

‘Yes, the bloody paper’s money. What we were paying this man for the exclusive.’

‘And did you find it?’

Dunphy drained the brandy, signalled to the barman who said,

‘No can do, mate. Can’t you see we’re closed?’

He turned back to Porter, his face red from the drink, said,

‘The envelope was gone, I couldn’t even find a wallet, Christ, I don’t even know the poor bastard’s name.’

Brant moved round to Dunphy’s front, said,

‘The poor bastard was Radnor Bowen.’

The brandy hit Dunphy’s bloodstream, he peaked, suddenly remembered, went:

‘The locker! Shit, go and check, you’re not going to believe what’s in there.’

Porter felt a wave of fatigue, said,

‘How about you tell me?’

Dunphy recalled Radnor’s face, the near joy in his eyes and repeated the snitch’s words,

‘It’s a visual.’

‘Not any more, it’s empty.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, he topped Radnor, then casual as you like, cleaned out the locker, while you, Mr Dunphy, you were... what? Sitting here with your thumb up your arse.’

Dunphy was shaking his head, saying,

‘Jeez, this guy is good. Talk about a set of cojones, like coconuts.’

Porter wanted to knock him off the seat, settled for:

‘You might temper your admiration with the thought that he’ll probably be coming for you next.’

Brant turned to the barman, said,

‘You want to hit me with a double of some Irish.’

The barman continued to polish a glass, said,

‘No can do, buddy. Like I told the dickhead, we’re closed.’

Brant shot out his hand, catching the glass, leant half over the counter.

‘Listen up, I’m only going to say this once: I am not your buddy and when I ask you for a drink, you go, “Ice with that, sir?” Now, let’s begin again... a double Irish.’

‘You want ice with that... sir?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, who needs ice?’

The barman placed the drink carefully on the counter, said,

‘That will be five quid, sir.’

Brant smiled

‘Like you said, you’re closed. Now, tell me again about the guy you had words with.’

‘I was busy. Here it’s always busy but I always spot the freeloaders — guys too cheap to pay for the toilet on the station, think they can sneak in, piss for free. I catch them every time.’

‘You’re a hero. Now, about this guy.’

‘Clocked him going in and he was, like, ten minutes. That’s how long the dopers take. You go in and they’re already nodding. This guy comes out, big hurry but I caught him, gave him the speech.’

‘Spare me the speech, what did he look like?’

‘Big, like he worked out, set of shoulders on him.’

‘And he was white?’

‘Yeah, he was white.’

‘Would you recognise him again?’

‘No.’

‘You’re certain?’

Now the barman got to smile, moved out of Brant’s reach, said,

‘I saw what he did to the poor schmuck in the toilet. I definitely wouldn’t recognise him again.’

When they eventually let Dunphy go, he asked,

‘Will I be getting police protection?’

Brant said,

‘We’ll be all over you.’

Porter watched him go and Brant said,

‘The wrong guy got drowned.’

They headed up to the Railtrack office, got hold of a guy named Hawkins who operated the CCTV. Porter said,

‘We’ll need the tapes for the past month.’

Hawkins’ shoulders slumped, he said,

‘I’d love to help but...’

Porter tried to stay calm, said,

‘This is a murder inquiry, we...’

Hawkins hands were up, saying,

‘There’s no tapes.’

‘What?’

‘The cameras haven’t been loaded for six weeks.’

‘You’re bloody joking! Why?’

‘Cutbacks.’

‘I don’t believe it, jeez.’

Hawkins tried to smile, went:

‘The public doesn’t know. I mean, the cameras are still a deterrent, it’s a psychological thing.’

Porter was close to boiling point:

‘It’s a bloody disgrace. A man was drowned in a toilet, the killer is swanning round the station, cameras everywhere and not one single picture. If that’s deterrent, God forbid you ever decide to try encouragement.’

As they stormed out, Hawkins said,

‘Don’t blame me.’

Brant answered:

‘But we do blame you and guess what? We’ll remember you.’

‘Ah, come on, you guys do the same thing.’

‘What?’

‘Con the public. They think the police are there, like the cameras, but it’s bullshit.’

They hadn’t an answer and kept going. TV crews were packed outside the bar. Dunphy, surrounded by reporters, was giving it large.

Brant said,

‘He seems to be over his shock.’

‘Yeah.’

‘The barman said that the man leaving the toilet was big, athletic. Ring any bells?’

‘Barry Weiss? It’s a reach.’

‘What else have we got?’

‘Nothing.’

But Barry was gone, he’d moved without a forwarding address.

When Barry opened the envelope he’d taken from Radnor, he said,

‘Fuck me.’

Counted it twice to ensure it wasn’t his imagination, then shouted,

‘I’m out of here.’

He’d gone back to his flat at New Cross, packed a few items, looked round, roared,

‘Bye, shit-hole.’

He caught a cab at the end of the road, said to the driver,

‘Take me to Bayswater.’

The driver looked at him, said,

‘Going to cost, pal.’

Barry leaned forward, asked,

‘When I got in, did I go, “How much to Bayswater?”’

‘No... but...’

‘Or did I look like some limp dick who thinks Bayswater is down the road?’

‘No, I just thought...’

‘Yo’ buddy, driving, that’s what you do. If you could think, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’

That shut the guy up. Barry stretched back thinking: Man, this is the life, I’m fucking master of anything I touch.

He felt like a god.

He had the cab stop on Westbourne Grove, paid him, saying,

‘I was going to tip you generously but I think you’ll learn more from deprivation.’

The driver would normally have gotten out, whipped the guy’s ass, but he’d seen the eyes and just wanted to get the hell away. Barry found a small hotel advertising long-term stays, just off the main road. He checked in and paid two weeks up front, said to the proprietor,

‘I’m going to be happy here.’

‘Rock around the clock’ was playing. Roberts looked at the pub owner, who said,

‘It was on a batch of tapes I bought, I don’t know what’s on half of them. I think I heard The Shadows yesterday.’

Roberts brought the drinks over to the table. He’d asked Brant for a drink, catch up on stuff; Brant was listening to the track, said,

‘Jeez, how old is that?’

‘Not bad though.’

Then Roberts told him the story about Haley arriving in England and Brant said,

‘The song is shite.’

The Tabloid was on the table, with the headline

Roberts nodded at it, said,

‘Looks bad.’

Brant finished his drink, said,

‘Bad! You should have seen Radnor, the poor fuck looked horrendous.’

‘You’re losing a lot of snitches.’

‘They’re getting greedy and that makes them careless. You know how it is, guv, get sloppy and you’re history.’

Roberts thought about that. A new record was playing, sounded like ‘Tie a Yellow Ribbon’, he asked,

‘What’s the deal with you and Porter Nash?’

‘Deal?’

‘Yeah, I mean, you’re not just working together, you’re what’s the term... tight?’

Brant’s mouth turned down — a bad sign — and he said,

‘I like the guy.’

‘Hey, Sergeant, I’m not knocking it. Just it’s so unlike you, especially with a gay. I thought you hated them?’

Brant grinned:

‘I hate everybody.’

Roberts decided to let the subject drop, it wasn’t going anywhere. Further probing and he’d sound like he was jealous or something. Instead, he asked,

‘You have a suspect for the killings?’

‘Yeah, a witness description matches a guy we’d already interviewed. We went round to his place but, hey, he’s done a bunk.’

‘Which would indicate guilt of something.’

‘Yeah. If it’s him — and it sure is looking good — he enjoys fucking with us. The locker at Waterloo was rented in the name of B Litz. “Blitz”.’

‘You have searches out for him?’

‘Everywhere.’

‘You want another drink?’

‘Lots of them.’

Barry had decided on a few drinks to celebrate his new location. Nothing major, just a few to chill out. But it got away from him and he lost count of how many he’d put away.

Leaving the pub, he couldn’t believe it was dark. How’d that happened? Decided on a walk to clear his head. He was moving unsteadily by Hyde Park when the urge for a piss hit. Why the hell hadn’t he gone in the pub? The park was closed so he did a quick look round then scaled the railings, near impaled himself. He’d got his zip down, was about to unleash when he heard,

‘Hey, you.’

Turned to face a young policeman. He couldn’t believe it, asked,

‘What is it with you guys? Every time I take a piss, you appear. Don’t you have any proper crimes to solve?’

Before the cop could reply, Barry’s urge could wait no longer and the urine came flooding out, all over the cop’s boots. Barry said,

‘Oops.’

The cop looked at his shoes in disbelief, then:

‘That’s it, you’re nicked.’

Barry moved back a step, said,

‘Alas, you’ve caught me without my hammer.’

‘What?’

‘My signature, what I use to beat the fuck out of policemen.’

Realisation began to dawn on the young cop. He fumbled for the radio on his tunic and Barry lunged. When he’d the cop on the ground, his hands around the throat, he said,

‘I’d hoped for a wee break but you lot keep coming.’

After, he tore the radio off — it was squawking like a parrot — and stomped it into the ground. Said,

‘Shut up. How am I supposed to bloody think?’

As he came back over the railings, a group of tourists gawked at him and he shouted,

‘I’m Jack The Ripper.’

They were still staring as he weaved his way towards Bayswater. He was beginning to wonder if this whole new start was all it was supposed to be.

In the pub, Roberts had cut out early as a prospective buyer for his house had called. Brant had asked,

‘You’re moving?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Where to?’

‘I have no idea.’

Brant, two pints to the good, phoned Porter, who arrived just after Roberts left. Brant said,

‘Think I’ll get rat-faced, want to join me?’

‘I’ll stay for one, but I have to get back. We’re swamped in paper.’

Brant was getting into his stride, the pints going down easy. He asked,

‘What if we find this guy and can’t prove anything?’

‘You mean Barry Weiss?’

‘Yeah. Let’s say we know it’s him but can’t touch him, what then?’

‘Where are you going with this?’

Brant didn’t answer for a time, then,

‘You told me before about a paedophile you dealt with yourself, when he couldn’t be got through the usual process.’

Porter hadn’t touched his drink, seemed astonished, said,

‘I thought you were asleep when I told you that.’

Brant smiled answered

‘I was nearly asleep, does that count?’

‘I’m not sure we should continue this line of talk, I don’t like where it’s going.’

Brant had finished his drink and reached over, took a belt of Porter’s, said,

‘The Clapham Rapist. He sort of fell on his knife, gutted like the pig he was. Falls... and others... suggested I helped him along. It’s not something that I’d lose any sleep over.’

Porter stood up.

‘I’m going to pretend we didn’t have this conversation.’

Brant looking relaxed, almost happy, asked,

‘You didn’t answer my question. Would you let him continue slaughtering our guys?’

‘You’ve been drinking, Brant. I’m going to clock it up to that, see you tomorrow.’

‘You’ll think about it, Porter, I know I will.’

Later, Brant switched to shorts and the tape had come full circle, started up again. Brant concentrated with a drunk’s ferocity and went,

‘No, that song is still shite.’

The owner, who’d heard Bill Haley now at least thirty times thought: He’s got a point.

McDonald was in the canteen — Gladys, the tea lady having a good look at him. He ordered poached egg on toast, she put the food before him, said,

‘I’ve given you two eggs.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘You’d make a nice friend for that Porter Nash.’

McDonald stared at her, then:

‘What the hell do you mean by that?’

‘Nothing, just that you’re both fine specimens of the male sex.’

He shoved the plate back at her.

‘Keep the bloody eggs.’

He grabbed a tea and stomped to a table. Gladys watched him go, thought: They’re so touchy, that lot.

McDonald was still fuming when Roberts came in and said,

‘I need you.’

He was going to answer,

‘Fuck off.’

But whined with,

‘Can’t I finish my tea?’

‘Tea! You’re stuck in here all day, aren’t you sick of tea? Come on, we have a murder.’

When they got to the car pool, only a Volvo was available, so Roberts said,

‘You still drive, I take it?’

As they pulled off, Roberts gave directions and McDonald felt a chill. Roberts shouted,

‘For Christ’s sake, watch the road.’

When they pulled up outside the flats, McDonald was sure his eyes would betray him. Roberts said,

‘You’ll know this place.’

‘What?’

‘From your stakeout. The post office is just down the road.’

‘No.’

He wanted to say,

‘I’ll wait in the car.’

With a heavy heart, McDonald followed Roberts into the flats. They didn’t go up the stairs but on through the hall, into the yard. Scene of Crime officers were finishing up and the pathologist was tearing off plastic gloves. McDonald was aware of a choking, rancid smell; he couldn’t bring himself to look. The pathologist, Ryan, went way back with Roberts, asked,

‘What’s wrong with your constable? First time?’

Roberts turned to McDonald, said,

‘Jeez, if you’re going to be sick, don’t do it here, you’ll mess up the crime scene.’

McDonald rushed down the hall, got to the street and puked. A woman passing, said,

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Drunk this time of the morning and you a policeman. I’m reporting you, what’s your number?’

Sweat blinding his eyes, sick on his mouth, he went:

‘Piss off.’

‘Nice language for an officer of the law. I’m definitely reporting you.’

She had a pen and paper out, was jotting down the number. He was too weak to respond; all he could think of was poached eggs and felt fresh bile erupt. Roberts, behind him, said,

‘Jeez, don’t harass the neighbours.’ Turning to the woman, he said, ‘Don’t worry, madam, I’ll sort him out.’

When McDonald straightened up, Roberts asked,

‘What’s with you? You’ve seen bodies before.’

‘It’s... ahm... he seems so young.’

Roberts gave him a long look, then,

‘I’m impressed. How could you tell that when the face’s so wasted?’

McDonald in full panic mode, blurted,

‘The clothes, what young people wear.’

Roberts was still staring, said,

‘Unusual conclusion on such a short glimpse.’

‘I’m trying to think like you, sir. You know, make intuitive leaps.’

‘Some leap. Let’s go take a longer look, see how much more you can leap.’

As they stood over the body, Roberts asked,

‘What’s your thinking?’

McDonald stared up at the window, said,

‘I’d say he came out of that window, broke his neck in the fall.’

‘Good deduction but did he jump or was he pushed? Come here, look at this.’

Roberts crouched and McDonald, fighting revulsion, followed: the face would fuel further nightmares. Roberts had a biro, using it as a pointer, said,

‘The nose is broken, I’d say that was before the fall. We better go up, see what the score is.’

McDonald was relieved to be getting away from the body when Roberts added,

‘Ryan said the fall didn’t kill him instantly.’

‘What?’

‘The poor bastard was lying here, alive, for some time.’

McDonald wanted to grab him, fought for control, went,

‘But... but you said he’d a broken neck.’

‘Yeah, but it didn’t kill him right away. He might even have pulled through if he’d been taken to a hospital.’

McDonald groaned and Roberts patted his shoulder.

‘Don’t take it so personally, you have to stay detached, hear me?’

‘Detached? I’ll try, sir.’

They reached the flat when Roberts said,

‘One thing is sure, though.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘It was one cold-blooded animal who let him die out there. This is one bastard we’re going to nail, am I right?’

‘Right, sir.’

Falls was back on duty. As so many officers were tied up with the ‘Blitz’ business, she’d been assigned to Brixton. It had been a lot of years since she’d walked the beat there. For a time, ‘High Visibility’ — the policy of having the police seen on the streets — had been very effective. Then it was abandoned, due to lack of resources. The Super, incensed that she’d attended the funeral, said,

‘She wants aggro? I’ll give her bloody aggro, send her back to jungle-land.’

Most people in the area ignored her. If they wanted help, the police weren’t the ones they turned to. A few had harassed her for being black, oppressing her own kind. The first few days, she’d been edgy, paranoid, angry. Dealt harshly with some illegal parking and traders, penny-ante stuff. Her second day, she busted a dope dealer. Caught him at the bottom end of the market. He’d turned out his pockets and, to her surprise, he’d been carrying coke — a lot of coke. She’d expected crack and maybe some weed. He’d said,

‘You can’t bust me, the shit’s not mine.’

‘You’re carrying it.’

‘This is high-grade charlie. I lose that, I’ll get a cap in the head.’

Then he bolted.

She was too tired to pursue and chances were, she wouldn’t catch him anyway. Intending to turn the stuff in later, she’d continued her beat. Late in the afternoon, a shoplifter had kicked her ankles and screamed abuse. Falls was trying hard not to think about Metal, how his face had looked in death. For a respite, she’d gone into a department store, used their bathroom. Locking herself in a cubicle, she’d let out a breath of bone-weariness. Felt the package in her pocket, took it out, unwrapped the paper. She knew the ritual: using the bowl as a support, she got out her nailfile, carved three lines, took a fiver, rolled it and snorted. Waited, then hit the next two.

Nirvana.

It hit her brain running, lit up the whole world, a rush of well-being enfolded her. She felt the cold drip down her throat and wanted to punch the door in delight. Bounced out of there with wings on her feet. A store detective asked,

‘Is everything okay, officer?’

She gave him a brilliant smile, said,

‘Everything is beautiful.’

The man, in all his years on the job, had rarely seen a cop smile and he’d never seen one smile in Brixton. He wondered what she was on.

Coke users say that no subsequent hit ever equals the first. Ever after, it’s always the pursuit of that first, unequalled high. Falls could vouch for that. The rest of the week, she snorted at regular intervals and though it was a rush, it was never that rush. She told herself,

‘Soon as I finish this batch, that’s it, put it down to experience and move on.’

She couldn’t.

Busted a drug dealer’s pad in Coldharbour Lane and as she confiscated the dope, said,

‘I’m going to let you off with a caution.’

The dealer, who knew his market, stared at her inflamed nostrils and jerky movements, said,

‘Getting yourself a little habit, officer?’

She clipped him on the side of the head. Later, she was horrified.

‘I hit him! What is happening here?’

She upped her intake.

There’s an after-hours club near the Railton Road called ‘The Riff’. They don’t advertise, as there’s no need. Frequented by both sides of the law, it’s a neutral zone where the usual business is on hold. Cops liked it because they could drink till dawn and it was cheap. The villains liked it for much the same reasons, plus that they got to gauge the cops. There was rum or rum and coke to drink. Nobody seemed to mind. Round three in the morning, a little weed appeared and kept the proceedings mellow. Nelson had been going there recently. Since the disaster with Falls, he was consumed with her. So, instead of heading home, he went to the club. The war stories distracted him. He found he was developing a taste for rum.

A Rasta called Mungo sometimes sat with him, talked about football. Once he’d offered Nelson a spliff, saying,

‘Chills you way down, man.’

‘I’m chilled enough.’

Friends would be stretching the terms of their contact but they were easy in their banter. This evening, Mungo seemed agitated. Nelson said,

‘Maybe you should do one of your funny cigarettes.’

‘I got me a problem, man.’

‘You want to tell it?’

Mungo grew more nervous, glanced round, said,

‘This club we got here, it works right?’

‘Seems to.’

‘Yeah, like we got’s both side of the street, man. Nobody too uptight about their calling, like we got ourselves a demilitarised zone.’

Nelson smiled — the description fit — thought at least fifty per cent of the patrons were heeled. Carrying everything from knives through bats to shooters. He had a blackjack in his inside pocket. You drink late in Brixton, you need more than an attitude. Mungo misunderstood the smile, protested,

‘This is a good vibe, man; no strutting your stuff in here, no posing.’

‘You want to cut to the chase?’

‘Like, I’m getting there bro’, just so’s you know I’m not, like, infringing on borders, you know what I’m saying?’

Nelson had no idea where this was going. Truth was, he had a buzz on — the rum, especially with coke, went down smoothly. You’re sitting there, sipping and next thing, you’re getting shit-faced. It crept up on a person, in a pleasant fashion. He wasn’t sure he wanted Mungo to lay a downer on him, said,

‘Hey, let’s forget it. What about another drink?’

‘Man, I don’t want to bum you out but there is serious shit happening.’

Nelson rubbed his eyes, went,

‘I’m listening.’

‘A cop is taking down dealers.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, ripping off the product, man. People is getting concerned. Some of these dealers, they’re, like, serious folk. You fuck with them, they get biblical, even with a cop — especially a wo-man.’

‘Whoa, back up, let me see if I’m getting this? A female police officer is taking down dealers?’

‘That’s it bro’, and she a sister too.’

Took Nelson a moment to join it up, alarm bells ringing in his head, he asked,

‘You got a name?’

‘Falls.’

Brant and Porter went through Barry’s flat like a tornado. Porter said,

‘This guy is smart, nothing incriminating.’

Brant held up a series of photos, said,

‘Likes himself, though. Half a dozen snaps here.’

‘Take them.’

When they got back to the station, the news had broken about the young policeman in Hyde Park. Brant said,

‘Let’s go public with Barry.’

‘You think?’

‘Least we’ll find the fuck.’

The Six O’Clock News carried the photo, asking Barry Weiss to urgently contact the police. Barry, in a drunken stupor, missed the broadcast. The cab driver, sitting in a pub, went,

‘I know him.’

Called it in. By nine, an army of police were combing the hotels of Bayswater and Paddington and, by 10.30, had a hit. Porter got a call, inviting him along for the bust. When he and Brant arrived, the street had been cordoned off. Armed police were in the hotel lobby, led by an officer named Thomas. He knew Porter from their Kensington days, asked,

‘How are they treating you in the sticks?’

‘Like visiting royalty.’

Thomas gave Brant the once-over, said,

‘Yeah, I bet. Your boy is in room 28. The manager says he hasn’t moved since returning late this afternoon, apparently the worse for wear, drink-wise. We have a passkey and are ready to go.’

He handed the key to Porter, who turned and walked towards 28. Brant, on his right, suggested,

‘Take him down fast, make sure he stays there.’

Porter nodded, listened at the door, inserted the key, turned it, opened the door slowly. Darkness. Moved a step into the room, found the light switch, flicked it on and moved aside as the stampeding troops rushed in. Barry, unconscious amid tangled sheets, was pounced on by a half-dozen men, handcuffed and thrown to the ground, Brant looked in the bathroom, shook his head. Barry opened his eyes, went,

‘What the fuck?’

And got a slap in the mouth, a wallop to the balls. Porter said,

‘Get him out of here, tear the room apart.’

Barry managed to croak,

‘Some fucking clothes guys, please?’

He was wrapped in a blanket, bundled out fast. Porter let his shoulders sag as Brant surveyed a mound of cash on the bureau, he said,

‘If we can link this to Dunphy’s payment, we’re on our way.’

Thomas moved out of the room and Porter followed, saying,

‘Thanks.’

‘You think he’s the guy?’

‘I don’t know. Jeez, I hope so.’

‘We’ll take him to Kensington, you can have first crack at him.’

On the street, a crowd had gathered and they alternately jeered and applauded. Brant said,

‘I love showbiz.’

Falls was in her bathroom, afraid to look in the mirror. She couldn’t believe how fast she’d come to total reliance on the drug. So, okay, she’d been hurting: the loss of Rosie, Nelson’s rejection, then the murder of Metal — who’d be able to walk unhurt from that? The coke had been just a pick-me-up, get those first Brixton days done. She’d begun to anticipate the new day, getting out there, getting high.

A shudder ran along her spine. All she thought about was the white powder and the dread of running out. Sure, she’d cut a few corners to get hold of it but let’s not dwell there.

A pounding at the door. She ignored it, hoped they’d go away. Got louder and sounded like the door would come in. Dragged herself to open it. Nelson, looking like he was about to have a seizure. She said,

‘Go away.’

And tried to close the door. He shoved and she fell backwards as he came marching in. Getting shakily to her feet, she said,

‘What the hell are you doing?’

Before he could answer, a voice came from the bedroom:

‘What’s all the noise?’

They both turned to see a skinny white guy, in his twenties, dressed in loose grey Y-fronts. He looked like a roadie after a rough gig. Nelson moved, pushed past him and gathered up clothes from the bedroom floor, the guy going,

‘I’m getting some negative vibes.’

And was grabbed by Nelson, hustled to the door, flung into the street, his clothes sailing behind. He yelped,

‘I need a caffeine fix, man.’

The door was slammed. Nelson turned to face Falls, said,

‘The state of you, like some crack junkie and with that...’

He pointed to the street, adding,

‘Trailer trash. What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’

She had to get something, said,

‘I need the bathroom.’

Got in there and tried to get a grip, thinking: Okay, take it slow, do two lines then get out there, deal with that bully, yeah, that’s the best thing.

Had the lines laid on the cistern, was about to snort when the door came crashing in, Nelson towering above her, saying,

‘Aw Jesus, on your knees, scrambling to get that shit.’

He moved, swiped the powder away, grabbed her arm and hauled her back to the living room, threw her into an armchair. She tried,

‘You can’t do this, who do you think you are?’

He moved right in her face, she could smell toothpaste and the remnants of... rum? He spoke through clenched teeth:

‘Who am I? I’m the cop who can bust your ass for possession, for intent to distribute, for extortion... you want me to continue? We’re talking eight years jail time, and that’s minimum. Now do you know who I am?’

She tried to gather her thoughts. How did he know all this? Couldn’t meet his eyes. Nelson backed off, sank into the chair opposite. She searched his face for some softening but he looked like he hated her. She asked,

‘What had you in mind?’

‘You have a choice. You can go to jail or rehab.’

‘Rehab?’

‘Yes, right now, they’re expecting you.’

He looked at his watch, continued,

‘In fact, you’re already late and they get very stroppy about that so you’re off to a bad start. I hadn’t expected you to be entertaining guests.’

She’d have killed for a line, her body was starting to tremble. She asked,

‘This rehab, how long would I be there?’

‘As long as it takes.’

‘I can’t, Nelson. I’m the type they’d mangle, I’m not cut out for that.’

‘Fine.’

He stood up, headed for the door. She called:

‘Wait, where are you going?’

‘To shop you. The warrant will probably be handed down quickly, you being a cop and all. Let me guess — they’ll come for you this evening, so you have... ten hours to coke out or... you could run.’

Tears formed but she steeled herself, said,

‘I’ll go.’

‘Hey, you’re not doing me any favours, I don’t give a toss what you decide. You’re a rogue cop, that’s the bottom of the fucking barrel.’

‘What do you want, blood? I’ll go.’

‘It’s now, Falls. You pack some things, we’re moving in five minutes.’

They were. He’d stood over her as she got a bag, no hope of a line. In the car, she asked,

‘Where is it?’

‘Croydon, a place called Fern House. I’m not going to lie to you, it’s a tough project, you’ll be put through your paces.’

‘And you know the place... how?’

‘The woman who runs it, I did her a favour once.’

Nelson was making good time, cutting through traffic, hitting all the green lights, gliding smoothly. Falls had hoped for a long, slow journey, finally pleaded:

‘Couldn’t we stop for a drink? I’m coming apart here.’

He took a quick look, said,

‘No.’

Ten minutes later, they pulled into a quiet street, in front of a large imposing house. Falls stared then asked,

‘That’s it?’

‘Yeah.’

He was about to get out when she touched his arm, said,

‘I need a promise.’

‘Depends.’

‘Promise me you won’t ever tell me why they call it Fucking Fern.’

Porter, Brant, Roberts and the Super were sitting round a conference table. Porter said,

‘We’ve got him in the interview room.’

And he nodded at Brant, who said,

‘I got hold of the Big Issue guy who said he saw the WPC being capped at the Oval. His identification would have given us all we needed but he says he can’t remember: no way could he make a positive ID. We can’t prove that the money from Dunphy is what we found in Weiss’s hotel room. In conjunction with harder proof, we might have been able to make it look bad but not on its own.’

The Super was looking frustrated, said,

‘What else do we have?’

Porter shifted through his files, said,

‘A sharp medical examiner noticed the bullets that killed the WPC were similar to those he took from a traffic warden a few weeks earlier.’

The Super was lost, went,

‘A bloody traffic warden, what the hell does that mean?’

Porter paused, then,

‘It means he was practising.’

‘What?’

‘Working his way up to a policeman... or woman.’

The Super felt it was time to establish his leadership, show them how real results were achieved, said,

‘We’re going to pull the old con on Mr Weiss.’

Porter didn’t like the sound of this. The Super was animated:

‘The old tricks are the best ones. None of your fancy west London stuff needed here; we put a ringer in the cell with Weiss.’

Porter’s heart sank.

‘A ringer?’

‘A policeman. Weiss will spill his guts.’

Before Porter could protest, Brant said,

‘And you’ve someone in mind, sir, to play... the ringer.’

The Super, feeling his leadership was intact, said,

‘PC McDonald, an up-and-coming officer, the new face of policing. Plus, he’s street-smart.’

Porter looked to Brant for help but he remained expressionless. The Super continued:

‘Right then, Porter, you can begin interrogation of the suspect and I’ll arrange for McDonald to be nicked.’

He seemed amazed his joke fell flat.

Barry Weiss was sitting in the interview room. Despite the hangover, he was making plans, told himself,

‘Admit to nothing and they can prove nothing.’

The door opened and Porter came in with Brant. They sat down and Porter said,

‘We’re going to tape this, OK?’

Barry seemed to consider, then,

‘I’ll need to know who wins Big Brother.’

The first session lasted two hours and they got nothing. Barry asked for a lawyer and a Diet Coke, saying,

‘I’ve got to count those calories.’

During the second session, Barry had tea and sandwiches, said,

‘The bread’s stale.’

A lawyer came and instructed Barry to say nothing. Barry stared at him, asked,

‘How bright are you?’

They could hold him for 48 hours, then they’d have to charge him or release him. When Porter finally said,

‘Take him to a cell.’

Barry said,

‘Is that your final answer?’

He was surprised to find the cell occupied, asked,

‘Don’t I get one on my own?’

And got shoved inside.

The Super had briefed McDonald:

‘This is your big break, laddie. All eyes are on you. I don’t have to emphasise the magnitude of this case. Crack this and you’re made.’

‘Yes, sir.’

McDonald had been relieved to get away from Roberts. The strain of pursuing the geek murder had been enormous. If he did well now, he might never have to work with Roberts again. The Super was saying,

‘You want him to confess. Don’t be pushy or he’ll smell a rat. Let him come to you. Admit to various crimes slowly. You have to appear almost disinterested so he’ll try to impress you. He’s a psycho, he’ll want to boast, let you know how superior he is. Any questions?’

‘I have the gist, sir.’

The Super appeared loath to stop, then,

‘They didn’t want you.’

‘Sir?’

‘Porter Nash, Brant, Roberts, they said you were the wrong man for the job. Are you, McDonald, are you the wrong choice? Have I made a grave mistake in entrusting this to you?’

McDonald felt like he was being briefed for Mission: Impossible, kept his face solemn, answered,

‘I won’t let you down, sir.’

‘See you don’t.’

He was wearing old jeans, a torn sweatshirt and scuffed trainers. There were two bunks in the cell and he settled in one, made as if he was sleeping. By the by, he heard commotion. They were bringing Barry down, heard him bitching about sharing a cell, then they pushed him in. The door clanged shut and it was quiet, save for Barry’s breathing, heard:

‘Hey, you.’

And his bunk was kicked. He took his time, turned, came awake, rubbed his eyes, asked,

‘The fuck you want?’

Barry was gauging him, assessing his build, said,

‘Let me introduce myself.’

McDonald stared and Barry went,

‘Don’t you get it? Intro to “Sympathy for the Devil”?

‘You woke me up.’

‘Sorry about that, I’ve had a rough day.’

McDonald nodded, said,

‘I’m Pete.’

‘Well hello, Pete. What you in for?’

‘A bit of GBH.’

Barry’s eyes lit up; he asked,

‘Yeah, who’d you batter?’

‘Some tosser in a pub.’

‘That’s it?’

McDonald allowed himself a small smile, said,

‘Perhaps one or two other items.’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh, a robbery they’re hot on.’

Barry was having fun. His crime books had mentioned this type of scenario. They plant a cop and get you to fess up. This guy was so bad at it, Barry wanted to laugh out loud. Climbed on his bunk, said,

‘Night, night.’

McDonald felt a panic build, asked,

‘And... what about you?’

‘Moi?’

‘Yeah, what are they trying to stick you with?’

‘Nothing much.’

‘Must be something.’

A pause, then:

‘Oh, yeah, I forgot to pay my TV licence but I’m going to front it out, know what I mean?

McDonald was nearly asleep when he heard,

‘Pete?’

Disorientated, he didn’t answer, heard,

‘Pete, you awake, buddy?’

Realised he was ‘Pete’, went,

‘Yeah, I’m awake.’

‘Here’s a question, you listening?’

‘I’m listening.’

‘It’s more a supposition, you with me? Okay, here it is: a stone psycho, a cop killer is celling with a... cop. His speciality if you will, cops being who he kills. My question is, how good is this cop going to sleep?’

McDonald tried to keep his interest low, sound almost bored, asked,

‘You want to tell me something, Barry?’

‘You’re asking the wrong question.’

‘I am?’

‘Sure, the question should be, did they set me up?’

‘What?’

‘The brass — they need a result, so you put a disposable cop in with the killer. They figure the guy has no control. You leave a policeman overnight with him, hey, he’ll off the fuck. I mean, come on, it’s what he does, he can’t help it. The crime books call it the “Irresistible Impulse”. They need a result and badly, the Press are on their backs, here’s a guaranteed winner.’

McDonald couldn’t see clearly: was Barry lying down... or crouched on the bunk, what? He fought the screaming in his head, the desire to peep out of bed, see where the hell Barry was. He asked,

‘You think I’m a policeman?’

No answer. Then a little later, he heard low laughter, a suppressed set of... giggles? Any chance of sleep was shot to hell. Sure, the guy was doing a number, fucking with his head, but he’d killed, what... six people, how conducive to sleep was that?

Brant and Porter were debriefing McDonald. Brant went:

‘Christ, you look a mess. What is that, method acting?’

McDonald glared at him and Porter asked,

‘Did you get a result?’

‘He’s the one, he did the murders, it’s definitely him.’

‘He confessed?’

McDonald shifted nervously, said,

‘No, but it’s him, he let me know that.’

Brant moved close, right in McDonald’s face, said,

‘He sussed you, didn’t he? What did you do, show him your warrant card?’

McDonald looked away, then,

‘Yeah, he sussed me.’

Porter slammed the table.

‘Aw, for heaven’s sake.’

McDonald wanted to explain — the fear he’d felt, what it was like to be locked up in close proximity to that animal — but these weren’t the people to whinge to, so he just lowered his head.

Porter said,

‘We’re going to have to release him.’

McDonald near shouted:

‘You can’t, the guy is a total psycho, he enjoys the whole deal.’

Brant had a cold expression, said,

‘Your boss is waiting for you.’

‘The Super?’

Now Brant was smiling.

‘I don’t think he’s going to be pleased, you being his golden boy.’

McDonald didn’t want to let it go, tried,

‘But you must do something, you can’t just let him walk.’

Porter waved his hand in dismissal. After McDonald had left, Brant said,

‘How much longer have we got?’

Porter looked at his watch, said,

‘Nine hours. His lawyer’s on the countdown already. What do you say we interrogate him some more?’

‘Yeah, what else is there?’

As McDonald approached the Super, he saw the hope in the man’s face. Without thinking, he began to shake his head, the Super going,

‘What’s that mean? Shaking your head, that better not be what I think it is; you’d better have very good news.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘Sorry! What the hell is sorry? How could you screw it up? You had a golden chance and you blew it. Plus, I’ve had a complaint against you.’

‘A complaint, sir?’

‘From a member of the public. She says you were not only drunk while in uniform but you used offensive language. I’d have let it slide, covered for you, it’s what I do, take care of my people, but you... You’ve made me look bad. You’re suspended pending an investigation, without pay. You’ll be lucky to hold on to your job.’

‘But, sir...’

‘Get out of my sight.’

Minutes later, McDonald was outside the station, bone-weary, not sure what to do. Porter spotted him and took a moment, said,

‘Don’t take it too hard.’

McDonald had a glazed look, said,

‘Someone should off him.’

‘The Super?’

‘That animal in the cells, Barry Weiss. If he walks, someone should do him.’

Porter looked around, moved closer, said,

‘Whoa, take it easy. You don’t want to let people hear that kind of talk.’

McDonald let out a high-pitched laugh, asked,

‘What’ll they do, suspend me?’

He headed home, to his bedsit in Lewisham. He’d thought it was functional, efficient and merely a step on the ladder. Now he viewed it as a step on the way down. He tore off his clothes, emitting obscenities as the recent events replayed in his mind, asked himself,

‘When did I last eat, am I hungry? Am I fuck.’

And climbed into bed.

‘Suspended without pay’; the unfairness caused him to toss and turn till he fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming of Barry Weiss, with the Super’s voice and the geek’s clothes. The phone dragged him awake. He was covered in sweat, said,

‘What...?’

The phone had that insistent shrill that warns:

‘Don’t answer, you’ll be sorry if you do.’

He answered, heard,

‘McDonald!’

‘Yes.’

‘This is Roberts, where the hell are you?’

Without thinking, he told the truth; always a bad idea, especially for a policeman, went,

‘I’m in bed.’

‘Jeez, get the hell up, I’ve good news.’

‘Yeah, sir?’

‘I know who killed our student.’

McDonald felt a shudder, said,

‘I’m suspended, sir, without pay. The Super...’

‘Bollocks. I’ll sort it out, get down here.’

Click.

Falls was scared. The first few days were detox. Those days were a blur: she was crying out for a line or medication, anything to numb the pain. The doctor said,

‘If it’s not absolutely necessary, we don’t use medication. You are addicted emotionally, your body isn’t yet physically dependent. We caught it in time. Another week, who knows? Despite what you might think, it’s better in the long haul that you don’t have tranquillisers.’

Falls glared at him, said,

‘Easy for you to say. I’d risk medication if it’s no skin off your nose.’

He gave a tolerant smile — part contempt, part pity — said,

‘The best thing is lots of water, food and vitamins.’

He was holding her chart, asked,

‘You’re a policewoman?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Mmmmm.’

Roughly translated, that means ‘You sad bitch’. She said,

‘What?’

‘Well, I was wondering, isn’t it a tad awkward, in your line of work, being an addict?’

She was beginning to think: How bad could prison be?

And answered,

‘A tad awkward, yes, that describes it.’

On the fourth day, Mrs Fox, the one who called the shots, said,

‘Elizabeth, you’re going into population today.’

Falls couldn’t remember telling her her first name, asked,

‘Population?’

‘Yes, you’ll be sharing a room with Emily, taking your place in the house.’

‘Lucky me.’

Mrs Fox had the benign face they construct in therapy school. It said:

‘I’ve heard everything and nothing shocks me. More than anything else, I love you, you worthless piece of shit.’

And she had the voice to accessorise it. A quiet monotone that suggests depth, compassion and spirituality Mostly it bugs the bejaysus out of you. Now though, there was a slight chill as she chided,

‘No one likes sarcasm Elizabeth. It won’t facilitate your passage.’

‘Yeah, right.’

Falls was shown a bright room with two beds. Mrs Fox said,

‘Emily is at group. For the next four days, you are on probation.’

‘And that means what exactly?’

‘You don’t watch television, read newspapers, make or receive telephone calls.’

Falls sat on the bed, said,

‘You really get off on this, don’t you?’

The benevolent smile deepened.

‘It’s usual to be resentful at this stage, Elizabeth.’

‘Stop calling me that.’

The expression flickered then clicked back into place and she continued:

‘To qualify for privileges, you have to earn them.’

Falls decided to try a smile of her own, asked,

‘And whose ass do I kiss to earn them, apart from yours, of course?’

‘Cooperation and honesty, that’s all we ask, plus a complete willingness to join in the spirit of the house.’

‘To be part of the team?’

‘In a manner of speaking, yes.

As Falls didn’t ask any more questions, Mrs Fox turned to go, then:

‘We have made one exception in your case.’

‘I can’t wait to hear it.’

‘Detective Inspector Nelson, a special friend of our community has asked to visit you this evening. On this occasion, we’ve bent the rules and he’ll be here at seven.’

After she’d gone, Falls was surprised to feel she was looking forward to the visit. But then, what else had she going? Nothing.

The door opened and a woman entered. She was skinny, in her early twenties, with very thin, red hair and a pasty complexion. Put her hand out, said,

‘I’m Emily.’

Falls took her hand, which was clammy, no strength in it. If she’d squeezed, she’d have crushed the bones, said,

‘Hi, Emily.’

The woman closed the door, said,

‘Sh... sh... sh.’

‘Okay.’

Then went to the window, looked out, came back to Falls, whispered:

‘I’ve got us a surprise.’

‘You do?’

Produced a bar of chocolate, said,

‘I’m going to split it with you.’

‘Thank you.’

With concentrated precision, she broke the bar evenly, handed over a wedge, said,

‘This is as good as an orgasm.’

Falls didn’t have a reply to this, who did? Emily was examining her, said,

‘I don’t know any black people.’

Falls considered a variety of hard-ass replies — but hey, the girl was sharing — so,

‘Well, us black folk, we sure do like our chocolate, so you’ve learnt one thing.’

Emily smiled, her teeth awash in chocolate, said,

‘You’ll be the only coloured person. We had an Asian guy but I don’t think that’s the same. What are you here for?’

‘Dope.’

‘Me too, and shoplifting, that’s my favourite thing.’

Falls debated mentioning her profession, decided to wait, asked,

‘How does it work here?’

Emily rolled her eyes, then:

‘They like to break you down, get you to admit being worthless, then they rebuild you with all sorts of positive shit. The guy to watch out for is Alan: he specialises in confrontation, getting you broken, weeping and purging. I hate him, he’s about five-foot nothing and looks like he never saw the sun in his life.’

Falls had finished the chocolate, felt the tiny hit from the sugar rush, went,

‘Wait a sec, you’re telling me some white midget is going to bust my balls?’

Emily was delighted, clapped her hands, asked,

‘You ever do “vike”?’

‘Vike?’

‘Vicodin, a massive painkiller, it covers you in a cloud of bliss. Oh, it’s like you’ll never hurt again.’

Falls felt a wave of affection for this awkward, pasty-faced white girl, asked,

‘That’s your gig, getting away from hurt?’

Emily’s eyes widened, she answered,

‘Isn’t everybody?’

‘Not with Vicodin and most of them out there, they like to cause the pain.’

Emily was nodding as if she’d never heard of such a notion, said,

‘You’re smart, aren’t you?’

‘If I’m so smart, how come I’m in here, faking an orgasm on chocolate?’

As Barry Weiss was being released, an air of doom pervaded the station. The cops had lined up, in silent rows, to watch him leave. Barry’s lawyer glanced at them nervously, said,

‘The sooner we get you out of here, the better.’

Barry, completely relaxed, asked,

‘Are the Press waiting?’

‘Reams of them. You want to cut out the back?’

Barry looked at him in astonishment.

‘Are you nuts?’

He smiled at the officer who handed over his possessions, including the money, said,

‘Hope it’s all there.’

He didn’t get an answer so Barry said to the lawyer,

‘Count it.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

‘Christ, can’t it wait?’

‘Count it.’

He did and, nervous, missed the tally, had to restart. Barry said,

‘You’re too tense, need to lighten up.’

Finally it was done and the lawyer said,

‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’

‘Not yet.’

‘Not yet?’

‘I’ve a few words for the troops.’

‘Jesus, you want to be lynched? Let’s go.’

Barry turned to the line of cops, said,

‘I’m going to miss you guys. Despite the circumstances surrounding my stay — and I do appreciate it was difficult for you lot — I want to say there are no hard feelings. I’m not the type to harbour a grudge...’ — here, he allowed himself a small chuckle and the line of cops stirred — ‘So, when I sue your collective asses, I want you to remember, it’s nothing personal. I’m not one of those—’

The lawyer grabbed his arm and pulled hard. Barry said,

‘Hey, I’m not finished.’

‘Yes, you are.’

And hustled him to the door. The front was reinforced plate glass and they could see the crowd of reporters.

Brant and Porter were standing at the threshold. Barry said,

‘See you, dudes.’

Brant looked at him, smiled. Barry said,

‘What are you smiling at, cocksucker? You screwed up.’

Brant winked and the lawyer manoeuvred Barry outside. The pack moved forward, microphones and questions storming in their faces. A man brushed his way to the front, said,

‘Barry, I’m Harold Dunphy from The Tabloid. We’ll give you an exclusive deal, put you up in a hotel, reward you handsomely.’

Barry smiled, looked to his lawyer who shrugged. Dunphy, seizing the moment went on:

‘We have a car waiting. Why give it away for free to... these...?’

Barry was tripping, said,

‘You’ve got a deal.’

Dunphy gave a signal and two burly minders appeared, carved a way through the crowd towards a car. The Press were frustrated, cries of:

‘Give us a quote, Barry.’

‘Did you kill those policemen?’

Barry paused at the door of the car, turned to face them, grinned, said,

‘No comment.’

Falls was readying herself for the therapy session. Emily, agitated, said,

‘Alan will be gunning for you.’

‘Thanks for warning me.’

‘He’ll do it in this session, when it’s your first group. He likes to let you know from the off, take you down straight away. He makes people cry, degrades them in any way he can. He calls it levelling, to get you focused.’

‘Don’t worry, Emily, it’ll be okay.’

The woman seemed unconvinced, almost close to tears, said,

‘I’d hate to see him belittle you and I just know it’s going to be bad.’

‘Bad?’

“Cos you’re pretty. I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but it’s true. And he gets rabid when the women have looks, as if he’s punishing them. My first time, he didn’t bother too much, just did the basic humiliation. That’s ’cos I’m plain... No, don’t say anything, I don’t mind.’

Falls put her hand out, said,

‘You’ve nice eyes.’

And laughing, they headed for therapy.

The group were already gathered, armchairs in a circle. Two were vacant. Emily moved to one, Falls stood as the group assessed her. She clocked Alan immediately, his chair a little back from the others. The chair beside him was vacant, he was glancing through a file, didn’t look up, said,

‘Sit down.’

The tone was brisk, it conveyed ‘don’t fuck with me’.

She took the chair and was assailed by his aftershave. A thick, cloying scent, it made her want to gag.

He still hadn’t looked at her. He was wearing combat pants, sweatshirt and trainers. The uniform of the relaxed therapist, a small stud earring in his left ear. There wasn’t a sound in the room. The group was evenly divided between the sexes, ages ranging from late teens to over-sixties. What they shared was a cowed look. Alan cleared his throat, said,

‘All right, people?’

The group responded:

‘All right, Alan.’

The unity of the response startled Falls. Alan waited, then:

‘Any infringements?’

A hand went up and he nodded; a middle-aged man said,

‘I’m Tom and I’m an alcoholic, an addict and a adulterer. I’d like to report an infringement by Emily.’

Emily’s head shot up, her cheeks reddening, Tom continued:

‘She bribed the cook to bring her in chocolate.’

Alan’s eyes were bright; he said,

‘Thank you, Tom. Emily, how do you plead?’

Emily didn’t answer and he barked,

“Fess up, you piece of trash.’

Emily began to cry and he started to clap his hands, said,

‘Together, people.’

The group began to clap. Then he stopped, said,

‘Emily, did you share this... treat with anyone?’

She shook her head and he said,

‘Cat’s got her tongue. Well, let the cat keep it. Nobody is to speak to her for three days. Understood?’

‘Yes, Alan.’

In unison.

Now he turned to Falls, said,

‘And what have we here? Ms Falls, I believe.’

Falls eyeballed him and she could see the smile begin to form on his lips. He turned back to the group, said,

‘People, what we have here is a junkie, a thief... and a whore.’

Falls hit him on the side of the head, a Brant special. The closed fist to the top of the ear with maximum force. Then she got up and, with her right hand, grabbed his hair, said,

‘Nobody, and I mean fucking nobody, calls me a whore.’

With her left hand, open palmed, she slapped his face four times, leaving fingermarks on his cheeks, said,

‘Now that is an infringement. I want you to apologise to Emily, to me, or I’ll tear your fucking head off.’

She turned to the group, asked,

‘All right, people?’

They roared:

‘All right, Falls.’

FALLS AND NELSON were sitting in the car, outside Fern House. Her packed bag was in the back seat; he was trying to suppress a grin, went,

‘So you whacked him pretty good?’

‘Up the side of the head.’

He paused, then:

‘Always the best place.’

She’d expected him to blow, his reaction now was a complete surprise. She asked,

‘They wanted me out?’

‘And fast.’

‘So what now, jail?’

He reached behind the seat, took out a parcel, said,

‘For you.’

‘A present?’

‘Yeah, I guess.’

Unwrapping it, she saw a heavy wooden frame, the dark wood gleaming. Inside the frame was a sign that read:

He smiled, said,

‘To tell the truth, the guy didn’t want to part with it. Said the sign had been in the window since Romero’s opened. I didn’t really want to know how long that might have been.’

She took a deep breath, then:

‘So, now what?’

‘Well, I better get you home and maybe, you’ll ask me in for a drink.’

‘Okay.’

As he put the car in gear, he said,

‘I thought we might... try... and start over.’

She didn’t answer for a long time till,

‘I don’t know if there’s such a thing as second chances. It’s hard enough first time.’

He tried to keep the disappointment from his voice, said,

‘Yeah, I thought I’d ask is all.’

She punched his shoulder, said,

‘Jeez, don’t give up so easy, where’s your fight at?’

Later, that night, lying in bed, he said,

‘That was awesome.’

‘It’s rehab, makes you hot.’

She got out of bed, went to the kitchen, got two beers. The thought of a fast line surfaced but she bit down hard, went back to the bedroom. He was propped up on one elbow, said,

‘I better tell you what’s been happening with The Blitz.’

‘They’ve caught him?’

‘Not exactly.’

He went over the whole series of events and she didn’t once interrupt. He concluded with:

‘Weiss is holed up in some posh London hotel with The Tabloid picking up the tab. Any day now, we’ll be treated to his exclusive story.’

Falls put her beer down, said,

‘You seem certain he’s the killer.’

‘Not just me. Brant, Porter Nash, the Kensington guys, they all swear he’s the one.’

They were silent and he said,

‘Lots of loose talk about someone maybe doing the job themselves, shooting the fuck.’

She was shaking her head, going,

‘No, no.’

He shrugged, said,

‘I suppose you’re right. A cop taking the law into his own hands isn’t exactly the ideal solution.’

She took his face in her hands, looked right at him:

‘You misunderstand. I’m not against that; it’s the shooting I disagree with... it should be a hammer.’

Mcdonald was waiting for Roberts. He thought about what the Chief Inspector had said.

‘We’ve solved the murder.’

He had run it through a hundred times. If Roberts suspected it was McDonald, then he’d already be sitting in a cell. So, someone else, by some bizarre turn of events, had found themselves in the frame. Roberts had laid the killing on another. McDonald asked himself,

‘Am I going to let some poor bastard take the rap for me?’

He was already afraid of the answer. Before he could torture himself further, Roberts arrived, said,

‘My office.’

They went in and Roberts said,

‘Shut the door.’

His desk was cluttered in papers. He moved them aside, said,

‘Bad news.’

McDonald figured it was to do with his suspension. He was almost relieved his punishment hadn’t been reversed. Roberts continued:

‘The murder, I was sure I’d solved it. A friend of the dead man looked set for it: he owed him money, was seen arguing with him, but it turns out he has an alibi. I checked and it holds up. Solving that case would have done us a lot of good. I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Yeah, I got your hopes up and I know it was personal for you. We’ll keep the case open but it’s looking like one of those random things and they’re the hardest.’

‘Yes, sir.’

McDonald tried not to let the relief show; he wanted to cheer. Roberts looked at the pile of files, said,

‘We’ve plenty to keep us busy, though. How about you nip along to the canteen, get us a couple of teas.’

En route, McDonald met the desk sergeant, who went:

‘You’re looking remarkably cheerful.’

‘Just doing the best I can, sarge.’

The guy stared at him, asked,

‘Didn’t you get suspended?’

‘I sure did.’

He moved past and tried to keep the grin off his face. The sergeant watched him go, muttered,

‘The new breed, what a bunch of tossers.’