Calibre

12

Brant was actually buying a drink for Roberts, put his hand in his pocket and laid out money. Roberts asked:

‘What’s the celebration?’

‘We’re going to be on the case, the Manners thing. Porter is going to ask the Super for us to be assigned.’

‘Why? Why on earth would he share it? It’s a trophy gig.’

Brant took a huge draw of his pint, gargled, then sat back, said:

‘It just got personal.’

Roberts figured Brant would explain in his own good time so simply waited and heard:

‘He got a letter threatening his current squeeze and I was there to hold his hand, so bingo, he wants us on board.’

Roberts digested this, then asked:

‘How did the psycho get his address, and why change his MO to write to Porter instead of the Super?’

Brant took another swig, wiped his mouth, said:

‘He didn’t.’

‘What?’

‘He didn’t.’

‘Didn’t what?’

‘Write the letter.’

‘How the hell do you know?’

Then he saw the smile and as realization dawned, he said:

‘Oh no, tell me you didn’t. Jeez, Brant, you wrote the letter.’

Brant had finished his pint, asked:

‘We having another or what?’

Falls had given the barman some serious grief and only stayed for one drink. As she left, she shot the guy a look of pure malice. She almost collided with Ford as she stormed out. He wasn’t a man you’d notice. Average height. Light brown hair cut short and tidy. He was wearing a sports jacket, and the shape hid his muscular build. Unlike most men of his generation, his hair wasn’t receding, and his face held no particular outstanding feature unless you got close and saw the eyes. They burned with a light that seemed almost welcoming until you realized that the welcome was drawing you into a place you never wanted to be. His age was late forties. He smiled at the barman and ordered a shandy, pint of, said:

‘Have one yourself’

The guy was still shaken from Falls, said:

‘Thanks a lot. You see that black woman who just left?’

‘No.’

‘You’re as well off’

‘Yeah? Why’s that?’

Ford’s tone was friendly, concerned without being nosey. He had perfected a way of not being remembered. The guy poured himself a small scotch, said:

‘Cheers. Man, I was real nice to her and she tore a strip offa me for no reason, then claimed I short-changed her. When I tried to make it up, you know, said to have the next drink on me, she lost it entirely. Called me a bastard. This job is hard enough, a person shouldn’t have to take abuse for no reason. You should have heard her.’

Ford gave a small smile, a hint of sadness in there, said:

‘Sorry I missed her.’

And he was.