35

When the excitement died down and the various cops had moved away, Falls moved from her vigil. Shit, she was cold, had been standing under the trees opposite the Mews for hours. Had trailed Angie from the lock-up, watched her enter the house, then had been confused by a red-haired guy who followed shortly after… unsure as to what to do, she’d waited until she’d heard the shots, then she’d rushed over. Through a window she’d seen Brant and Porter, on top of the situation, if two bodies classed as ‘being on top’. Then she’d waited for hours as the ambulance came and a shitpile of blue.

Her mind asking:

‘What are you waiting for?’

She didn’t know.

When it had all settled down, she finally moved and broke in through a back window. She could see the blood on the floor and the mess from the many feet that had trampled around.

A bottle of scotch was left on the table, half full. She tilted it and drank deep. There was very little to see and she decided to head home but then, a picture on the far wall caught her eye. She inspected it and recognised it as a vixen. Was it her jittery state or did the animal have some resemblance to Angie? Whatever, she took it, let it be a scold to how she’d fucked up.

Hailed a cab and got home in the hour before dawn, the cabbie saying:

‘Late to be out, ma’am.’

Ma’am! Jesus, how old was that?

Inside, she had a shower and changed into her old cotton pyjamas, the ones with the false scent of homeliness. Got another big drink going and decided to try and hang the picture but hell, it weighed a ton. She turned it over and the back was literally packed solid: how distracted had she been that she hadn’t noticed already? Got a knife and began to hack at the filling until packets of money began to tumble out. The more she hacked, the more money flowed. She began to laugh, thinking Roberts had suspended her without pay… she flung wedges of money in the air, shouting:

‘Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.’

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