Calibre

17

Falls was being reassigned. Brant had pulled her off the decoy gig, it wasn’t working. She was before the duty sergeant, who said:

‘I don’t know how you got out of that basement. Once they go down there they’re gone.’

She smiled, didn’t answer. The sergeant figured she’d slept with somebody with juice and that might account for the smirk she was wearing. But he intended wiping that off, said:

‘You’re being partnered with Lane.’

PC Lane had been with the force two years, and his claim to fame or infamy was he’d been photographed with Tony Blair. That had looked like it might help his career, but recently it was a huge liability. Unless the Tories came back soon, he was doomed to obscurity, a pariah of New Labour proportions. His appearance didn’t help. He was very tall and lanky, with an expression of friendliness, the very worst thing for a cop. The duty sergeant waited for a response from Falls, but she was too experienced to go down that road, she simply asked:

‘What’s the assignment?’

Disappointed, he said:

‘There’s a domestic in Meadow Road, the neighbours have been calling it in, get over there pronto.’

Falls wasn’t wild about that ‘pronto’ but bit her lip. Lane was waiting outside, an umbrella up against a faint mist. Falls said:

‘Lose that, you want to have some cred. At least look like you can tolerate a little rain.’

Lane folded the brolly and thought:

She’s the ball-buster I heard about.

They didn’t speak until they reached Meadow Road. A neighbour walking up and down, near spat:

‘What the hell kept you, interrupted your coffee break, did we?’

Lane asked:

‘Where is the disturbance, sir?’

The guy looked at Lane, thinking, What a nerd, said:

‘ “Disturbance,” murder more like, it’s on the first floor, apartment 1a.’

Lane looked at Falls, asked the question that nervous cops the world over ask:

‘How do you want to play this?’

She was already in the zone, said:

‘Carefully’

They rang the bell, the silence from inside was ominous.

The door opened and a woman in her late twenties stood there, asked:

‘Help you?’

Lane said:

‘We’ve had a report of a disturbance, may we come in?’

She shrugged, said:

‘The place is a bit of a mess.’

She turned and they followed her in. A small living room was strewn with broken plates, upturned furniture. The woman was dressed in a long, black chemise, Doc Martens, and had a bandana in her hair. Grunge by default. Falls looked down and saw a carving knife in the woman’s left hand, held loosely. She nodded to Lane, said:

‘Could I please have the knife?’

The woman lifted it, stared at it as if she’d never seen it, said:

‘Sure.’

Handed it over, it was still wet with blood. Lane asked:

‘Who else is here, ma’am?’ he was already moving towards the bedroom. The woman said:

‘Just me now. I don’t think Duncan is a tenant anymore.’

In the bedroom a man was lying on his side, wounds all over his body. Lane felt for a pulse, radioed for back-up, came out and raised his eyes to Falls, who asked the woman:

‘What’s your name?’

‘Trish, though Duncan calls me “hon.” ‘

Falls sat down near her, said:

‘Trish, do you know what happened here?’

‘Oh yeah, Duncan was taking my money. I hate when they do that, steal what’s freely offered. So I stuck him.’

The coroner would reveal that she’d ‘stuck’ him fifty-six times. Falls asked:

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

She said she’d kill for one, which caused Lane to give Falls a worried look. Falls stood up, moved to Lane, said:

‘Make the tea.’

He was shaking his head, said:

‘Are you mad, she’s a lunatic, she didn’t stab that guy, she eviscerated him.’

Trish turned, said:

‘Two sugars, please.’

Lane said:

‘I’m going to cuff her.’

Falls moved in front of him, said:

‘No you’re not, you’re making tea, got it?’

He’d heard the rumours about Falls and, with a sigh, began to search for the teapot.

Falls want back to Trish, and the woman asked her:

‘What will happen to me?’

Bad things is what Falls wanted to answer, but said:

‘Self-defence, you might get probation.’

Thinking pigs might fly. Trish yawned, said:

‘I’ll be glad to get a quiet night’s sleep. Duncan snores, it really gets on my wick.”

Lane brought the tea in a mug that had the logo

I’M A GAS.

After she took a sip, she asked Falls:

‘You have a fellah?’

Lane was making faces of disgust, and she answered:

‘No, not at the moment.’

Trish thought about that, then went:

‘Is it a black thing?’

Falls wanted to say, isn’t everything, but merely nodded. A few minutes later the heavy gang arrived and Trish was led away, calling:

‘Won’t you come and visit?’

Lane said:

‘You’ve made a friend.’

‘Fuck off’

Back at the station, they had to fill out the myriad of forms that a murder entailed. Lane finished first and asked her:

‘You want me to help you?’

She glared at him, went:

‘Is there something in my body language that says, “Help me?”’

He shuffled nervously, tried:

‘No, it’s just I have a knack for flying through those things.’

She sat back, wondering why she was so furious, and figured it was because she felt sorry for the poor bitch who was going down for a long time, another casualty of the sexes conflict. She said:

‘Fly through them, how about you take a flying fuck.’

He reeled back. He’d been warned she was lethal but felt their recent experience might have connected them. And worse, he fancied her so went for broke, asked:

‘You want to get a drink or something later?’

She laughed out loud, said:

‘Take a wild guess.’

He slouched away. Met Porter at the canteen, who asked:

‘You okay?’

‘Am, I think so. I’ve been partnered with WPC Falls and am trying to get a handle on her.’

Porter touched his arm, moved close, said:

‘Don’t bother.’

Porter bought him a cup of tea and asked:

‘So what’s this about you and Tony Blair?’

Lane sighed.

Brant had got a call from his informant, Caz, and met him in the Oval, across the road from the cricket ground. The sounds of the Test Series were a hum of comfort, if you liked the game, if not, it was solely annoyance. Brant had bought a copy of the Big Issue magazine from the regular vendor outside the tube station. Brant, still buzzing from his literary effort, gave the guy a five and said to keep the change. The guy asked:

‘You going to the Test?’

Brant said:

“I’m Irish, I only follow hurling.”

The vendor wanted to say:

‘Fuck off to Ireland then.’

But he knew Brant was a copper and a rough one, plus he’d given him large, so he said:

‘Great game.’

What Brant knew was it was a mix of hockey and murder.

Caz was already in the pub, wearing a garish shirt that had hoola hoops, naked brown women, and the logo

CHELSEA GOES RED.

A reference to the Russian billionaire who’d bought the club and was currently buying every player in the first division. Brant said:

‘I didn’t know you followed the footie.’

Caz was confused, went:

‘I don’t.’

Brant nodded at the shirt, and Caz said:

‘I just liked the colour.’

Brant ordered a pint and said to the bar guy:

‘Put it on the tab.’

The guy asked:

‘What tab? We don’t do tabs.’

‘You do now.’

He sat, looked at Caz, who said:

‘I can get you some of these shirts, at cost.’

Brant laughed, shook his head, and said:

‘I wanna go spic, I’ll let you know.’

Caz wasn’t sure what this meant but knew he’d been insulted, with Brant what else did he expect.

Brant asked:

‘So what have you got for me?’

Caz could hardly contain his excitement, had intended to draw it out and thus raise the value, but he blurted out:

‘The Manners case?’

Brant was midswallow, had to put down the glass and act casual, went:

‘Yeah, so?’

Caz felt the moment deserved his ethnic aspirations, said:

‘Ees is big, no, mucho importante?’

Got a slap to his ear and the warning:

‘Drop that wetback shit.’

Chastened, Caz said:

‘I think I know who the guy is.’

Brant took out his cigs. The Oz were finished and he was back to Embassy. He missed those Australian packs. Lit up and Caz asked for one.

Was told:

‘Bad for your health, but not as bad as fucking with me.’

Caz took a breath, said:

‘There’s a hooker. She says she knows the guy who is killing people.’

‘Name?’

Caz felt his energy slipping, whined:

‘Can we discuss reward?’

Another slap to the ear, so he said:

‘Her name is Mandy, but she won’t give it up for free. She wants paying.’

Brant smiled, went:

‘She’ll get what’s coming to her.’

Caz slipped an address across the table, said:

‘She won’t talk to you alone; she insists I be there.’

Brant stood up, drained his pint, said:

‘Don’t welsh out on the tab.’

And was gone. Caz considered phoning Mandy, telling her it hadn’t gone as hoped and warning her about Brant, then thought, There’s no warning in the world to prepare for that animal. He began to root in his pockets to pay the freight.