Vixen

8

Roberts grabbed the phone, said:

‘Yes?’

A robotic tone, speaking through one of those voicechangers, asked:

‘You in charge of the bomber case?’

‘Yes, I’m Chief Inspector Roberts.’

‘Impressive title, you like to use that, I’d say. What you’d do, kiss some major ass to get there?’

‘Is that a question?’

Heard a snigger, someone in the background, then:

‘Naw, I like fucking with you. Lighten up, pal, these are the jokes. You’ll have had a second explosion?’

Roberts was furious, he felt chest pains, asked:

‘What happened to a warning? What happened to you calling about the money?’

More sniggers, then:

‘Tell you the truth, Rob, it got away from us. That ever happen to you? The truth is, we changed the rules. You want to know why?’

‘Why?’

‘’Cos we can.’

Roberts glanced round the room, saw the stone expressions, said:

‘You want payment, you’ll have to play by some rules.’

Silence and he thought the call had ended, then a harsher tone:

‘You fuck-face, you mind if I call you that? Not that it matters, you’re a messenger boy, got it? Your function is to act as bagman. We want six large.’

‘What?’

‘Two explosions — this shit is expensive. Time and money, you get my meaning? But hey, I can lighten up, cut you some slack. How would it be if I give you 48 hours, say Friday evening, round 6.00? I’ll give you a bell, that help at all?’

Roberts took a deep breath, tried to rein in his rage, said:

‘I’ll need more time.’

‘No can do, fellah.’

Click.

Roberts put the phone down, said:

‘See if there’s any hope of a trace. Not that I expect one.’

No trace.