Calibre (15 page)

‘God, I owe you. Like BIG TIME.’

She slept the sleep of the truly contented, smiled in her sleep and emitted little groans of pleasure.

Roberts hadn’t been down to East Lane Market for a long time and his first thought, was:

Where did all the English go?

The number of former Soviet nationals was staggering. It was packed and he recognized a pickpocket he’d arrested once. The guy named, originally enough, Dip, tried to pretend he didn’t see Roberts. He began to move quickly through the crowd but Roberts caught him up, asked:

‘Yo, what’s your hurry, buddy?’

Dip acted surprised, went:

‘Ah, Chief Inspector, good to see you.’

Roberts stared at him, the guy seemed down on his luck, shabby clothes and an air of desperation. The very last thing a guy in his line of work needed to look was desperate. Roberts said:

‘Come on, I’ll buy you a coffee.’

A stall was situated at the middle of the market, and Roberts got two roasting cups, said:

‘It’s hot, mind those fingers, eh.’

Dip took a sip, said:

‘It’s instant; I hate instant.’

Roberts laughed, he’d always had a soft spot for Dip, asked:

‘How’s business?’

Dip looked offended, tried for indignation, said:

‘I don’t do that no more.’

Roberts took a slug of the brew and burned his tongue, slung the thing away, said:

‘You’ve gone straight, that it?’

Dip looked downcast, said:

‘You can’t try your luck with those non-English, you never know what diseases they might have and if you were crazy enough to try, you’d end up like that guy last week. He dipped a Croatian, got caught, and they sliced off his fingers.’

Roberts was smiling, the careless bigotry, racism from a pickpocket, the British Empire might be fucked but the spirit lived on in its thieves. Roberts asked:

‘Do you know a guy called Fitz?’

Dip glanced around, as if they might be overheard, said:

You don’t want to fuck with him.’

Roberts realized this was the second time he’d been warned about the guy, said:

‘He’s a hard-ass, that it?’

Dip gave a grimace then:

‘He’s a bloody lunatic. You need that animal Brant with you if you’re going to see him.’

Roberts was slightly offended, his pride was on the line, said:

‘Where does this supercrook hang?’

Dip indicated the pub on the corner, gave a low whistle, said:

‘He’s always there but you’ve been fair with me, Mr Roberts, you cut me some slack before, so I’m telling you, call for back-up before you go after him.’

Roberts was moved, even if the remark came from a pickpocket. Dip made to go and Roberts asked:

‘How will I know him, in the pub I mean?’

Dip sighed, his expression saying:

I tried my best
.

Said; ‘You can’t miss him, he’s the biggest fucker in there and I mean size, oh yeah.’

Roberts had been a cop a long time and over the years, he’d taken some beatings, given some too. None were in the league of the one he received in East Lane.

Went like this.

He went into the pub, full of piss and vinegar. Brimming with confidence at the successes he’d recently achieved and figuring he was about to notch up yet one more.

He was wrong.

The bar was smoky, with Johnny Cash playing loud, ‘Fol-som Prison.’ That should have alerted him. He misinterpreted it, thinking, ‘fucking shit-kickers, English rednecks.’ Men were in small packs all over the lounge and a hush descended as he entered. Not just because he was a stranger but these guys, dole scroungers, stall keepers, fugitives of all hues, smelt police. He spotted Fitz right away. He’d been told he was big, the man was huge, propping up the counter, midway through a dirty joke. He looked like a small mountain, a very mean one. Wild black hair, a grey beard, and and boiler suit. Not that he especially chose these outfits but little else fit his bulk. Like a Western, men began to move away from the encounter. Roberts, feeling powerful, asked:

‘Fitz?’

The guy turned slowly, he had large brown eyes, with a mark below the left, as if someone had tried to gouge it out. His voice was surprisingly gentle, he said:

‘Who’s asking?’

Roberts smiled, it was classic, like the old days, everyone knew their role. He was going to enjoy hustling this moron into the nick by the collar, to fit the image. He said:

‘Chief Inspector Roberts, I need a word.’

The barman poured a fresh pint of mild and placed it before Fitz, who went:

‘That don’t mean shit to me, pal.’

Loud nervous laughter from the hordes. This enraged Roberts, who’d been enjoying the whole scene, and worse,
Fitz lifted the pint and downed it in one fluid swallow, paused, then belched. Mild is wildly misnamed. It’s usually the dregs of other beers, cheap and lethal. Roberts reckoned it was time to flex the blue muscle, said:

‘Get your arse outside, I’m taking you in.’

And got the most ferocious wallop of his life, up under the chin, from left field. It lifted him clear off the floor, dropped him on his ass. Then Fitz wiped the stout from his upper lip, said to the barman:

‘Have another pulled, I won’t be long.’

Without effort, he leaned down and picked Roberts up by his shirt, buttons flying in all directions, threw him over his shoulder and walked out to the back of the yard. He threw Roberts aside like a doll, said:

‘This is going to hurt like fuck, but you won’t ever diss me again.’

Then he began to give Roberts the beating of his life. It didn’t take long but it was relentless. Before he blacked out, Roberts heard Johnny go:

‘ “I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.…” ‘

BRANT ROLLED OVER in his bed, stared at the tousled head of Linda Gillingham-Bowl, man she looked old. But what a ride, she’d fucked him every which way but loose. And came back for more. He’d finally roared:

‘Enough, I’ll sign with you.’

Now all he had to do was get Porter to the flat, lace his coffee with speed, and get some more chapters out of him. Piece of cake. The phone shrilled and Brant shook his head, he was feeling the blaze of a medieval hangover but he’d enough medication to kick its ass. He lifted the receiver, croaked;

‘Yeah?’

Heard Roberts was in the hospital and in bad shape. He jumped out of bed, got to the shower, and scalded the bejaysus out of his skin. Then to the medicine cabinet, got Solpadeine, a hint of speed, some Alka-Seltzer, and piled it in a glass with GALWAY BAY on the front. Added water and sunk it. His system fought like a demon to process the concoction.
A moment between heaven and hell and then his stomach decided to go quietly and accept the verdict. He heard:

‘Darling, where are you, sweet pea?’

He strode into the bedroom and she stared at his naked body, whistled low, went, ‘You beast.’

He began to dress for combat. A battered leather jacket, faded jeans, and steel-toed boots. He said:

‘There’s coffee and shit in the kitchen, I gotta go.’

She reached out her withered arms and he suppressed a shudder, asked:

‘Come pleasure me, you animal.’

He was already heading for the door, said:

‘Keep it on max, babe.’

When Roberts opened his eyes, he felt an avalanche of hurt. Took a time to focus and then registered Brant and Porter Nash. Brant said:

‘You stupid fuck.’

Roberts felt agony all over, tried:

‘This is to console me?’

Porter looked angry, went:

‘How could you go without back-up?’

Roberts didn’t want to go there, said:

‘It’s a long story’

Brant leaned over, said:

‘Your nose is broken, your arm, countless ribs, and you have bruises on your face to make a cat laugh.’

Roberts was appalled, his lovely nose, his only decent feature, said:

‘You should see the other guy’

Brant nodded, said:

‘Oh, we will.’

A nurse came, began to fluff the pillows, the mandatory nurse stuff, she asked:

‘How are we feeling?’

Roberts said:

‘I’m in pain, could I get something?’

‘Not till the doctor does his rounds.’

‘When is that?’

She looked at her watch, said:

‘Oh, I’d say Tuesday’

And was gone.

Roberts groaned and Brant put his hand in his jacket, said:

‘Try this.’

A small brown bottle, with clear liquid. Porter was alarmed, tried to protest. Roberts asked:

‘What’s in it?’

Brant, impatient, answered:

‘The fuck you care, you want to stop hurting or you want recipes?’

Roberts lifted the bottle and Porter reached for it, said:

‘Sir, with all due respect, I’d wait till the doctor arrives.’

Roberts drank the potion, said:

‘With all due respect, you’re not hurting like a son of a bitch.’

Brant began to zip up his jacket, said:

‘We’ve got to go pick up Fitz.’

Roberts was surprised:

‘How did you know it’s him?’

Porter shrugged, said:

‘He called it in.’

‘And he gave his name?’

‘Yeah, even gave his address.’

They left, Brant goosed the nurse on his way out. By the time the doctor came round, Roberts was sitting up, singing ‘My Way’

In the car Porter asked:

‘What was in the bottle?’

And got the wolverine smile and the answer:

‘What else, “Love Potion No. 9.” ‘

Falls was having a rare moment of self-honesty. It was the day after her magical meeting with Don, when all her dreams came through. This morning a dozen red roses arrived from him and he’d phoned like six times. Everything she’d always wanted, right? Hell, he was the man the women’s magazines eulogised and the hope of such a guy launched a new edition every week.
Every schmaltzy song was based on ‘Mr Right’ and the impossibility of finding such. He’d found her, crashed into her life.

So why wasn’t she having all the symptoms of success, the runs, the pains in her stomach, the writing of his name on pages of pink paper, the linking of her name to his, how it would sound if she was his wife… All the insane shit that said: This is the real thing. Where was all that neurotic thinking? She’d made tea, toast with no jam, and only a thin spread of low-fat margarine and said aloud:

‘He’s got no edge.’

There, she said it, he was close to fucking boring, the constant adoration, who the hell was he kidding? Fuck, no one behaved like that unless they were on heavy medication. And his name?…

‘Don?’

Was she supposed to think that was cute? She was raging, tempted to phone him, go:

‘Why are you fucking with my head? Who put you up to this?’

And lit a cigarette, which reminded her, him saying:

‘Oh, we’ll have to wean you off those, my precious, can’t have you damaging yourself’

She hated him.

There, out in the open, enough said.

Graham Picking, the child molester, was very pleased with himself, getting off on a technicality, the pictures in the paper made him look hard done by. He laughed out loud. Combed his thinning hair, put some gel on there, make it appear thicker. He hadn’t returned to his home, oh no. The neighbours would have placards and stones through the window. No, he was far too slick for that. Staying at his sister’s flat in Islington, a school right down the road. He’d already made friends with the cutest little boy, a positively Botticelli angel named Ronan. He’d taken the sweets from Graham without any hesitation and would be waiting after school for the special surprise that Graham had pledged:

He remembered a phrase from an old TV show:

‘How sweet it is.’

Tried to recall, was it The Jackie Gleason Show? He was dressed in a new suit, new shirt and tie, and shining black shoes. The picture of civility. He felt himself getting hard at the thought of the treasure to come. The first time you got them, oh the bliss of all that innocence. They knew you loved them, that it was pure love, not that soiled image the tabloids tried to present. He remembered when The News of the World ran the campaign of NAME AND SHAME… the pictures and addresses of his fellow travellers on the front page. Then OPERATION NEPTUNE, when the cops tracked down another batch of his fellows with the details of their credit cards from the Internet. He had to admit his chaps were foolish, trusting some chat room and some stranger to keep quiet.
If he wanted photos, and sure photos were good, he’d go down the Mile End Road, buy all you wanted, no details required but cash. He slurped a mouthful of coffee, sighed with near contentment. The sun was shining. He’d stroll down the street, buy the papers, and maybe some Danish in that bakery he’d seen.