The McDead

Wake up

The Roebuck had, as Brant predicted, laid on a ‘grand spread’. Mountains of sandwiches. Cocktail sausages, nicely burnt. Lashings of tea, soup and, of course, plenty of booze.

Roberts was holding a cup of tea; he hadn’t tasted it. Falls prepared a plate of food, brought it over. He shook his head, she urged, ‘They’re very good, sir, try one of those lads.’

‘No … thank you.’

Brant came over, nodded to Falls, and she backed off. Brant took the tea from Roberts, put a glass there instead, said, ‘It’s Irish, kick like a bastard.’

‘OK, Tom.’

The others looked round.

Tom!

It never occurred to them Brant had a Christian name. His expression told them they best forget it. PC McDonald was a tall blond Scot. Falls might have felt an attraction if he wasn’t so … smug. He was wolfing down food and she asked, ‘Missed breakfast?’

He gave her a glorious smile. It was a winner, he’d been told and often made women weak at the knees. She said, ‘You’re the rising star.’

Now he was modest, toned down the smile wattage, said, ‘I got lucky.’

‘Word has it you’ll get Brant’s stripes.’

‘Oh I dunno, would I be up to his rep’?’

Now Falls treated him to her smile. All teeth and absolutely no warmth, said, ‘You’ve got that right.’

He grabbed a napkin, carefully wiped his mouth, and she thought, Uh-oh, all the moves.

He touched her arm, said, ‘When we’re done here, I wonder would you like to come back to my place?’

‘When we’re done here-you mean scoffed the food, then we’ll scarper?’ He decided to play, prove he could be a fun guy, said, ‘Yeah … sound good?’

She moved his hand away, asked, ‘And back there we’d do what exactly?’ The full smile now.

‘Oh, something will come up, eh?’

She looked full at his crotch, said, ‘If we waited for that to come up, we’d be here all week.’ And moved away.

McDonald considered following but then grabbed another sandwich, muttered, ‘Cold cunt.’

Brant and Roberts had moved to a table, a line of empty shot glasses on the counter. Roberts said, ‘God, that’s a strong drink.’

‘Aye, takes the edge off.’

They laughed at that notion. The drink hasn’t been invented that keeps the edge off. Still, they’d enjoy the reprise.

Brant asked, ‘What the medical examiner say, guv?’

Roberts had to shake himself, focus on where he was, said, ‘That he’d been beaten with a stick … maybe a club, broke every bone in his body. A systematic beating was how he described it. Took a while. Took a while.’

They digested that, then Roberts asked, ‘What d’ya think, a baseball job?’

‘Could be a hurley, guv.’

Roberts nodded, then, ‘I know who did it.’

‘Jesus, guv, are you serious?’

‘Tony told me before he died.’

‘And you haven’t told anybody.’

Roberts raised an eyebrow, said, ‘I’m telling you.’ And he did.

When he was finished, Brant whistled, said, ‘This is what they call synchronicity, I think.’

‘What?’

‘Sting had a song about it … well he would, wouldn’t he? You know, like coincidence.’

Roberts was lost, said, ‘I’m lost.’

Brant was almost excited. ‘Guv, I’ve a new informant and guess who he says is the new kid on the block?’

Now Roberts gave a bleak smile. ‘Mr Logan?’

‘Bingo!’

Roberts stood up, swayed and Brant asked, ‘We’re going to get him now?’

‘Oh no, that’s something I want to do properly. I want to savour it. I’m going to get some more of that Irish.’

Brant sat back, said, ‘That’s the spirit, guv.’