Vixen

18

Waterloo Station was chaotic. Most of the end platforms were sealed off; the bomb damage, though minor, looked dramatic. Superintendent Brown, surrounded by cops, was giving it large.

His face turned purple as Roberts and Brant approached. Roberts’ tracksuit seemed to glow against the dark police uniforms.

Brown shouted:

‘What the hell are you wearing?’

Brant said:

‘We had a lead, sir, and the Chief Inspector felt a disguise was called for.’

The Super glared, snapped:

‘Did I ask you, Sergeant?’

Roberts, going with the flow, said:

‘We thought we had them but it turned out to be a drug thing.’

Brown, not believing a word, said:

‘And… the disguise? You couldn’t bear to part with it… is that it?’

‘No time, sir. As soon as we heard about the explosion, we rushed over.’

Brant enjoying the nonsense, asked:

‘How is Porter Nash?’

It seemed to take Brown a physical act of will to dredge up who that was, then:

‘How the bloody hell would I know? Nobody tells me anything.’

PC McDonald, on the outs for a long time, tried to gain some brownies, said:

‘WPC Falls is with him.’

The Super rounded on him.

‘That’s supposed to be some sort of reassurance, is it? A nigger visiting a pooftah. Christ, the Force is gone down the shitter.’

The Tabloid’s chief crime guy was called Dunphy. He’d recently shone in a serial cop-killing saga. He was home sick with a strep throat. His sidekick, named Malone, was filling in. When Roberts and Brant had arrived, he’d switched on his DAT-recorder. He knew those guys were always gold, he couldn’t believe his luck. Moving back slowly, he slipped away, got out his cellphone. Thought: Dunphy, you prick, you are history. This story would make his career, he could already envisage the headline:

TOP COP CALLS UNDERLINGS NIGGER AND POOFTAH.

Un-fucking-believable.

Roberts strode over to the left luggage office. The Super asked:

‘Where are you going?’

‘Checking on the ransom.’

The assembled cops looked at each other. Brown allowed himself a low chuckle, asked:

‘You think we didn’t already consider that. McDonald says the bag is still there.’

Brant creased his eyes, asked:

‘Did he open it?’

A groan spread through the cops and a chorus of:

‘What’s…?’

Brant, enunciating each word as if he were chewing on them, asked:

‘The bag… did he open it?’

A mad scramble to the luggage office.

Bill, the attendant, still suffering from Friday’s hangover and the after-effects of the bomb blast, shouted:

‘Hey, take it easy.’

As Bill was trampled by cops, Brown tore open the bag. They could see it was empty. He pointed at Bill, ordered:

‘Arrest him!’

Bill’s arrest was a sensation. Reporters, TV crews besieged the police station. Roberts tried to reason with Brown, said:

‘It’s not him.’

The Super, flush with pride, relief and a mad belief that the nightmare was over, allowed himself a supercilious smile, answered:

‘Oh, it’s him all right. When you’ve been in this game as long as me, laddie, you just know.’

Brant, behind Roberts, was more than happy to have Brown expose himself as a horse’s ass. It might even result in them getting shot of the bastard. Not even the Masonic Lodge would save him. But Brant didn’t want Roberts to go down with the fuck, tried to pull him away. Roberts, his hangover resurfacing, was livid, said:

‘Sir, with all due respect, this is balls. We’re going to appear extremely foolish.’

Before, Brown would have slapped down his Chief Inspector for the tone of impertinence. But drunk with success, he turned to the other officers, his hands, palms outwards in the mode of ‘Lord, grant me patience’, said:

‘Did you hear that, men? Our Chief Inspector believes we’re going to look foolish. I ask you, man to man, can a policeman dressed in a white pimp tracksuit truly appreciate the term “foolish”?’

It got the required jeers, guffaws, derision. Though the officers liked Roberts and were afraid of Brant, they went with the Higher Authority. Brown was elated; he couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt camaraderie with the troops. He said:

‘Drinks on me, lads.’

Big hurrahs and cheers of ‘For he’s a jolly good super’.

Roberts was left with Brant.

He wanted to shout after Brown:

‘You ignorant prick.’

Brant, his body relaxed, got his cigs out, fired up, said:

‘Let’s have a look at the other employee.’

‘What?’

‘The other guy in the left luggage office, I see he didn’t show up for work. What do you say we pay him a visit?’

Roberts gave a large grin.