Calibre (11 page)

Brant put the book down, said:

‘This novel, the main character is a sheriff, he kills people, likes to fuck with them, acts down home, friendly, and is laughing at everybody. Want to hazard a guess as to his name?’

Porter didn’t take long, said:

‘Ford.’

Brant smiled, said:

‘No wonder he didn’t want to part with it.’

Porter thought about it, said:

‘Nothing we could bring into court.’

Brant had another look at the book, said:

‘Least the fuck gets his in the end.’

Porter signalled for the bill, knew Brant wouldn’t be paying, said:

‘The murders can’t be proved to be anything more than accidental, so what can we do?’

Brant was in no doubt, said:

‘Lean on him.’

Porter wanted something solid. They were on to the guy, but so what? There was nothing they could charge him with. He asked:

‘So we lean on him, what’s that going to do, he’s not going to confess.’

Brant was lighting a cig, blew the smoke out slowly, said:

‘You lean in the right way, things happen, always do.’

Porter put a few notes on the table, said:

‘I’m going to re-examine the killings, see if there’s anything to join the dots.”

Brant stood up, said:

‘He knows we know, that is something.’

‘But does it help us?’

Brant had no idea, said:

‘I’ve no idea, but be sure of one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I’ll get this guy, you can put that in the bank.’

Porter didn’t like the sound of this, emphasized:

‘You mean “we,” right? We’re going to get him?’

Brant hesitated, then:

‘Sure.’

ANDREWS WAS BEING touted as a hero, the papers had got hold of the story and the headlines went:

PETITE WPC TACKLES ARMED DRUG DEALER.

The gist of the story dwelt heavily on how pretty she was and how, facing down a crazed gun-man, she’d not only taken the gun off him but arrested him and prevented a siege. A photo made her look shy and vulnerable. The Super was over the moon. He’d had a call from the home secretary and the George Medal was being hinted at. Brown took it as a personal vindication. He lined up the whole force and gave a speech extolling Andrews’s outstanding valour. She was more than a little mortified at how it was getting so large, but secretly delighted, who wouldn’t be. Dunphy, a hack from the tabloid, got a call from Jamil’s brief, heard about the officer who legged it. His story got the front page next day:

HERO COP LEFT IN THE LURCH BY YELLOW COMRADE.

It made no concessions and stated that McDonald turned and ran when Jamil produced the weapon.

Brown, trying to stem this, had McDonald in his office, asked:

‘What the hell happened?’

McDonald, sweating freely, tried:

‘I felt it was best to try and avoid a siege developing and grabbed an opportunity to fetch back-up.’

Brown stared at him, asked:

‘That’s it, that’s your story?’

‘I know it doesn’t sound good, sir, but in the heat of the encounter…’

Brown cut him off, said:

You cowardly bastard.’

McDonald had rehearsed this moment a hundred times, but in none of the scenarios was he out-and-out called a coward, the worst nightmare for a cop. Especially when another cop was involved, a woman. He tried to find some plausible line to get him off the hook but the word COWARD hung in the air like a death sentence. He remembered the movie The Three Feathers and against all the odds, the hero came back from such a charge and saved his mates. All this flew through his mind as he squirmed to find an answer. Realized the Super was speaking, heard:

‘And not only are you suspended forthwith, but pending a hearing, I’m recommending you be thrown off the force as soon as possible. Now get the hell out of my sight and out of my station; you have a stink of weakness all over your miserable hide.’

McDonald heard himself say:

‘Yes, sir, and thank you, sir.’

Jesus, he hadn’t even the balls to tell him get stuffed. And as the man sunk his whole life, he was thanking him! He edged out of the office to find a bunch of officers outside, obviously having heard every word. He had to move through them, not one of them moving an inch. He got elbowed and pushed and was afraid to respond lest it get even uglier. The atmosphere was deadly, and he knew a lynching wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility. He got to his locker, his mind in tatters, opened the door, and recoiled. A dead rat hung there with the note ‘Born to run.’ He felt bile in his throat and thought he was going to throw up. Slammed the door and headed for the exit, a line of cops along the corridor, hissing quietly. He managed to get through the gauntlet, closing his ears to the taunts and jeers.

Outside, he took a deep breath. Roberts was coming up the steps, and before he could say anything, McDonald rushed down the steps, running as fast as he was able, doing the very thing that had landed him in all this hell. The lines of The Gingerbread Man echoed in his head, and he knew madness was detonating in his brain. He got to the pub, burst through the doors, said to a startled barman:

‘Gimme a large Teachers and not one word of shit, you hear me?’

He heard him, it was hard not to.

The rest of the day was a haze to him, he moved from pub to pub and, odd times, he’d spy a cop on traffic duty or walking the beat, and he wanted to hide. The irony of his position wasn’t lost on him, and it fuelled his rage. Instead of getting some understanding of how criminals felt all the time, he ranted in his mind at the injustice of it. If he could just perform one act that would catapult him into glory He replayed the scene with Jamil a thousand times and always it came down to the barrels of the shotgun and the awful panic. He’d muttered to himself out loud a few times and noticed punters move away. He wanted to shout:

‘Afraid? Of me? Hey, I’m a coward, nothing to fear here unless you want help and that’s when I leg it.’

Wanted to weep and tried to think who he could call, no one, not a bloody soul.

Falls, she’d fallen spectacularly from grace, yeah, she’d fucked up big time and more than once, and here she was, she’d got her shit together. How’d she do that? Could he pull off the same miracle?

Towards evening, as it began to get dark, he headed towards Brixton, drawn back to the scene of his disgrace, turned into Coldharbour Lane. No one about. He looked over his shoulder and then went to the door, pushed hard and was in, stood in the hall for a moment and then entered Jamil’s flat.

The yellow police tape on the door had already been stolen. He stood in the living room, closed his eyes, and could see Jamil level the gun at him, sweat poured from his brow. The whiskey he’d drank earlier had worn off, and he had a blinding headache. The flat was already tossed. The cops had only given it a surface search, but once they had Jamil, the impetus had shifted. McDonald began to search in earnest, doing the intensive sweep you only learned on the job. First he turned up a bag of coke, wedged in the freezer in a packet of fish fingers, plus a heavy gold bracelet. He had never done coke but knew the drill. Laid a line and used a five-pound note to snort, tickled his nose, and he thought he’d better do a few more to see what the fuss was about. Resumed his search and a few moments later was rocked as the dope hit. Felt the cold dribble along his throat and knew something heavy was happening, then he punched the air and said:

‘Alright motherfuckers.’

And got the pure rush, had to stand still and let it wrap him in its embrace. The crystal-clear thinking began immediately. He felt strong, vibrant, the blood was singing in his veins and, speaking of songs, he wanted music. He found the remote control and faced the television. Wanted MTV and wanted it now. Chanced on the news, paused as the lead item was about a notorious pædophile, Graham Picking who, due to a technicality, was being released from what had appeared to be a slamdunk case. A whole list of children he’d molested and the evidence had been damning, no grey areas. Looked
like he was going down forever, but a crucial item of proof had been lost and now the whole case was being thrown out. The screen showed Picking being led out by his grim-faced lawyer, who had the expression of someone who’d lost. Picking was mugging and grinning for the cameras. Something in McDonald clicked and an idea began to form. Almost at the same time, he noticed the right end of the heavy carpet wasn’t quite solid. He’d never have seen it without the coke clarity, he was seeing a brave new world. Bent down and pulled at it, peeled it back and revealed two loose floorboards. Tore them up and BINGO…. A wad of money, large denomination notes, plus more coke, and items of jewellery. McDonald selected a heavy gold bracelet, got it on his wrist, liked the feel of it, and the prize, a Sig Sauer P226, 9mm. He said:

‘Fucking A.’

Which was something he’d never thought in his life, nevermind uttered. Lifted the gun and loved the weight, he checked it and noted it held fifteen rounds. A stash of bullets also and he racked the slide, put a round in the chamber, aimed at the screen. Picking’s face in his sights, whispered, ‘Sayonara, sucker.’

Took him a real effort not to squeeze the trigger.

A mistake done twice is not a mistake, It’s called failure
.

—Robert Evans,
The Kid Stays in the Picture

FALLS WANTED TO feel good about Andrews, tried to sell herself the sisterhood bullshit, when one woman succeeds, it’s a victory for all women. Yeah, right. She was in her tattered bathrobe, sipping at tea, her day off, the papers in front of her. Andrews was on the front page of most papers, even The Big Issue had a feature on the deal. What galled Falls was how fucking humble Andrews looked. And truth to tell, she sure did have a pretty face. Next thing she’d be doing the sergeant’s exam and talking about a shoo-in. Falls had failed it countless times. McDonald was sure fucked, though. Falls didn’t see how he could possibly even stay on the force, she knew he’d been suspended and an enquiry was due. The poor bastard was gone, and she’d been so close to the door herself, she felt for him. She almost regretted the black eye she’d given him. When she’d mentioned him to Brant, who could save almost anyone, being a survivor himself, he’d sneered, said:

‘He’s gone.’

And Roberts, who’d been down the toilet a few times,
who’d usually go to bat for a cop, had compressed his mouth in a hard line, said:

‘A yellow cop is a dead one.’

She thought of giving McDonald a call and say what?

‘Tough shit, I hear security are always glad to employ a policeman.’

Maybe ask him if he’d like to go out, have a few drinks, but God, what a night that’d be. No, scratch that. She detested McDonald, had had so much aggro with him, she’d lost count. But she hated to see any cop go down. She sighed, took a sip of the cold tea, and tried to figure out how she was going to rise to a level of congratulations for Andrews. She’d just begun to like her too, they’d shared a few memorable moments, but that was over now. You couldn’t hang with a hero, the light would blind you. Falls stood, picked up the papers, and dumped them in the trash.

Crew was tired, trying to figure out his next move and stay ahead of the cops was exhausting. It was like he had to think for three, himself and the two cops. They were coming and that was a given. Plus he had to show up at the goddam office. Being the boss helped, but he still had some major league pissed-off people on the phone, going:

‘When am I getting my audit?’

Accountancy shit and when money was involved, as it was here and heavy, the pissed-off factor rose accordingly.

Wouldn’t it be grand, as the Micks say, if he could tell the truth, go:

‘Hey, I’m trying to kill people here, you wanna give me some fucking slack?’

He was sorely tempted. And he had serious plans to implement if he was to win this game with the cops and stay out of the nick. His secretary, Linda, had been very upset:

‘Mr Crew, clients are demanding to know when they can get some time with you?’

Demanding!

That definitely was in the realm of bad manners. Wouldn’t that be a hoot, kill his client base. Certainly be a first. God knew, the majority of them needed killing. Money only seemed to bring out the very worst in folk. He’d reassured Linda he was on top of his game. Which particular one he didn’t specify. Mandy the treacherous cow, wasn’t taking his calls and wouldn’t answer the door either. Man, it would be a downright pleasure to punch her ticket. He locked himself in his office, began the process of escape. Took some time and when he emerged, exhausted, Linda was moaning, he said:

‘I believe it’s time we gave you a raise.’

Shut her the fuck up, money rang the changes each and every time. Enough to make a chap cynical. He was always glad to get out of the city, the financial centre bored him. He liked money for what it could do but didn’t see it as sexy or hot the way these new young guys spoke about it. Once he went with a few of the youngbloods to a wine bar and they
drooled over the amounts they made, the number of dots on a pay-cheque. One of them, seeing his disinterest, asked: