The McDead

Powerful

Tommy Logan had gathered his men. He began, ‘Now lads… You could cut the Irish brogue with a shillelagh. He could have been speaking Swahili for all they cared. They were on a roll and cash was steaming in. Plus, they knew he was the last man on earth to fuck with.

He continued, ‘Ye’ll be familiar with informants. Or snitches, as they call them in this country. It seems the police have somebody doing the dirty on us.’

Raised his voice, ‘Play fair I say.’

It received the required laugh. ‘So now, I’ll put five large into the hand of the fellah who finds the snitch.’

An animated murmur. They liked the deal.

‘OK, then … go get ’im … oh, one more thing…

They paused.

‘Be careful out there.’

More polite laughter. Ol’ Tommy, he was a big kidder.

Then he got on the phone. His solicitor, chosen well.

‘Harry … it’s Tommy Logan.’

‘Tommy how are you?’

‘I’ve a wee bit o’ bother.’

‘Oh dear, maybe we can help.’

Harry was a Mason, knew where help was located.

‘There’s two policemen, a DI Roberts and his sergeant, a guy named Brant. They’ve begun to harass me, upset the missus, that sort of thing.’

‘We can’t have that.’

‘I knew you’d understand.’

‘Leave it to me Tommy, it’s already being processed.’

‘Thanks Harry.’

‘We must have that game of golf soon.’

‘Of course … ta-ra then.’

‘Bye.’

Unless Tommy took his hurley to the links, there was as much chance of nine holes as Brant being promoted.

The South London Press had a photo of Falls on the front page and the headline:

‘Shy Heroine Stops Clapham Rapist’

Shy because she refused an interview.

McDonald got a brief line as her partner. He wasn’t complaining. Brant’s version of the event had been accepted and if he got a little glory, all the better.

Rosie’s death had prevented a deeper investigation. It was known that a keg of scandal could be opened, so the authorities let it be.

Falls tried to talk to Roberts, cornered him in the canteen. He said, ‘I’m sorry about Rosie, I liked her a lot.’

‘Thanks, guv.’

She indicated his cup, offered, ‘More tea?’

‘No, I’m about finished.’ Which, roughly translated meant, ‘Spit it out.’

She tried. ‘It’s about the rapist, sir…

‘Oh yeah. Congratulations, you did well … bloody well.’

‘Sir, it’s about his death.’

‘Good riddance I say.’

‘Sir, on moral grounds…

He put up his hand, ‘Whoa, we’re coppers-morality has no place in it.’

‘But, sir-’

He quoted, ‘If a mere code of ethics could keep it legal, there’d be no need of us. I don’t give advice but lemme say this … Leave it alone.’

‘I don’t know if I can, sir.’

He stood up, said, ‘You’ve no choice. If there’s anything to be resolved here, it’s why you don’t appreciate the sergeant who saved your life.’

Walked away.

‘So he knows … God, why am I surprised?’

Roberts got the call to the Super’s office. No invitation to sit down, right to it.

‘You’re to lay off Tommy Logan.’

‘What?’

‘There’s a highly sensitive investigation underway. You’d only jeopardise months of work.’

‘Are you aware that he killed my brother?’

‘Are you aware I’m your superior officer and to be addressed as ‘sir’?’

Roberts felt reckless, dangerously so, said, ‘I don’t get it, Logan’s not a Mason.’

The Super was up, spitting, ‘I don’t think I like your inference, you’d be wise to proceed with great care.’

Roberts didn’t even hear him, was trying to put it together, then, ‘Wait a mo! It’s his bloody solicitor, that scumbag Harry Something. Christ yeah, he’s definitely in the lodge.’

‘That will be all Chief Inspector. I’m going to overlook your outburst, put it down to your grief. You can go.’

Roberts pulled himself together, prepared to leave. The Super added, ‘It would be a conflict of interest to have you on a family case.’

‘With all due respect, that’s bollocks … sir.’