The McDead

Say cheese

Brant was sitting in his armchair, smoking and thinking. In his career, he’ d broken two major cases with a hunch. He’d acted on them when all the evidence pointed elsewhere. He’d play what he knew, then let it settle, add in the possibilities and bingo, he’d get an answer.

Now he sat bolt upright in his chair, said, ‘Jesus.’ Then he got on the phone, said, ‘It’s Brant.’

‘Sergeant, how are you? Did the bugging device work?’

‘Like a dream.’

‘Good, do you need something?’

‘A hidden camera.’

‘No problem, where is it to go?’

‘In a kitchen.’

‘Mmm, tricky to install.’

‘It’s my own kitchen.’

‘Right … when?’

‘Now.’

‘Gimme yer address, I’ll be there in an hour.’

Brant gave it, said, ‘I appreciate it.’

‘A pleasure.’

‘I’ll watch for you.’

The man laughed, said, ‘Sergeant, leave the surveillance to us, it’s what we do.’

That evening when Cheta arrived, she was carrying bags of groceries. First off she gave him a swallowing kiss, then pushed him off, with ‘Hombre … my caballero, first we eat.’

Needling, he said, ‘Let’s go out.’

No way. She indicated the bags of stuff.

‘This is especial, now … you relax, the kitchen is mine … no hombres allowed.’

He made as if to follow, ‘That’s not very liberated.’

She threw her hands, mock horror, said, ‘I am Spanish.’

‘OK … what’s on the menu?’

‘Paella … with the recipe of Andalucia, gorelax.’

He opened a beer but barely touched it, gave her forty-five minutes, then, ‘Honey, I’ve got to go.’

She came storming out, ‘How? I hear no phone.’

‘My mobile, very discreet but it’s urgent.’

‘But the dinner … is ready … have pocito, taste.’

He was already at the door, ‘I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.’

‘Will I wait?’

‘No, it’s an all nighter.’

He waited outside in the Volvo. He figured she was cunning but none too smart. They rarely got to be both. After half-an-hour, a cab pulled up, she came out, gave her destination, never looked round. She lived in Streatham, back of the swimming pool. A row of terraces in the passageway, she went into the second.

As he drove away, he phoned Roberts, asked, ‘Like to see a video?’

‘What now?’

‘It’s a one-off, you’ll recognise the star.’

‘Do I bring anything.’

‘Handcuffs, probably.’

The picture was quality, none of that grainy effect. If Brant thought it was strange to watch her in his own kitchen, he didn’t show it. Just smoked a lot of Weights. They could see her put the paella on the plates then go to her bag, extract a small bottle and douse one plate.

Brant said, ‘Guess who that’s for.’

Then she was gone.

Brant explained, ‘It’s me telling her I’m off.’

Back she came and they could see her rage as she scraped the dishes into the bin.

Roberts asked, ‘You have the bin?’

‘Oh yeah.’

Next she tidied up, washed all the gear, even wiped the floor. Roberts said, ‘Good little housekeeper though.’

Brant smiled, answered, ‘Deadly.’

The lab test showed liquid arsenic.

Roberts asked, ‘Wanna come when we give her a tug?’

‘No … I’ll pass I think.’

Later, Roberts said, ‘Buy you a drink?’

‘Yeah great, but a pub with no barmaids.’

‘Right.’

After they’d had a few, Roberts asked, ‘Wanna hear about it?’

‘Sure.’

‘She had a reason.’

‘Oh good, that makes it all right then.’

Roberts signalled for another round, said, ‘She claims she never intended to kill, just to sicken you as it is men always sickened her.’

Brant took a belt of scotch, said, ‘A nutter eh?’

‘Barking.’

Roberts felt he should offer some support or even solace. But, all he could give was, ‘Don’t let it put you off women.’

Brant gave a huge belch, said, ‘It sure as hell put me off paella.’