The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead (9 page)

He’d been summoned, so to speak. Brant was in the canteen, wolfing down a glazed doughnut. The only person to have his own drinking vessel, even the brass got plastic cups. His was a large chipped mug with Rambo on the side. A logo read:
I’m a gas.
But the
g
had faded. Brant gave a big smile, particles of sugar in his teeth, said: ‘Have a seat, boyo.’

Tone was 6’1” and awkward. Roger McGough might have used him for the PC Plod poems. He had his hair cut short and gelled. His face was made up of regular features and his whole demeanour suggested ‘unlikely lad’.

He sat.

Brant gave him a full look, then asked: ‘Tea or coffee, boyo?’

‘Ahm, tea, I think.’

Brant snorted: ‘Well, it won’t come to you lad, hop up there and gis a refill, two sugars.’

The canteen lady, named Doris, gave Tone a wink, said: ‘Watch ’im.’

When he returned, Brant said: ‘Lovely job’, and took a gulp, went: ‘Jaysus you never stirred it.’

Which was true. Then he took out his Weights, said: ‘I’d offer you one but it’s a smoke-free zone,’ and lit up. Tone tasted his tea. It was like coffee or turpentine or a cunning blend of both. Brant leaned over, asked: ‘Do you want to get on, boyo, eh? Are you ambitious?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good, that’s good. I have a little job for you.’

‘I’m ready, sir.’

‘Course you are, a fine strappin’ youth like you. You’ll sire legions.’

‘Sir?’

‘Now, there’s two dossers, male and female. In their late twenties. They have their pitch in the Elephant and Castle tunnels. They wear band aids on their faces. I want their names, their squat, who they run with, any previous. Got that?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Well, don’t hang about lad, get crackin’.’

Tone stood up, perplexed, then: ‘But sir... Why? Have they done owt? What’s the reason?’

Brant held up a hand, palm outward: ‘Whoah, Sherlock, hold yer water. The reason is I asked you – d’ya follow?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That’s the job, and oh, Tome...

‘Tone, sir. It’s an ‘n’.’

‘Whatever. Mum’s the word, eh?’

When the constable had gone, Brant said, and not quietly: ‘Fuckin’ maggot.’

F
ALLS WAS DREAMING OF
her father when the hammering began at her door. Awakening, she checked the time, 3.30am, and heard in disbelief: ‘Open up, this is the police.’

Throwing on a robe, she went to the door and opened it on the safety chain. Brant.

‘What the – ?’

‘I bring you greetings.’

She could smell the wave of liquor and he looked demented. She said: ‘Sergeant, this is hardly an appropriate hour.’

‘I need a kip.’

And she figured: ‘Pay up time.’

Before she could protest, he said: ‘Don’t be a cow. I’ve been turned over. I’ll sleep on the couch.’

Reluctantly, she opened the door. He slouched in, muttering: ‘McBain, Hunter, all done in.’

‘Your friends?’

And he gave what she could only describe as a cackle and said: ‘Friends? Yes, yes. I believe they were, and better than most.’ He flopped down on the couch, said: ‘Jay-sus, I need some sleep. Get the light would you?’ And within minutes he was snoring. She got a blanket from her bed and as she put it over him she saw the gun in his waistband. Afraid he’d do damage, she reached for it, only to have her wrist seized. He said: ‘Don’t handle my weapon.’

As she tried to regain her sleep, she wished: ‘Hope he shoots his balls off.’

Falls prided herself on the flat being a ‘smoke free zone’. Even her old dad, no matter how pissed, never had the bottle to light his ‘home-mades’ there. Now she woke to the stench of nicotine, clouds of it hung in the air. Storming out to the living room, she found Brant wrapped in her best towel, a cigarette dangling on his lips. He said: ‘Breakfast’s made. Well, sort of. I’ve boiled the water. Whatcha fancy, coffee all right?’

‘No thank you, I’m a tea drinker.’

As she went into the kitchen, he observed: ‘Jay-sus, you’ve got a big arse, haven’t you?’

The kitchen was a ruin. Used cups, stained teatowels, opened jars left everywhere. He strolled in after her, asked: ‘How’d it go then?’

‘What?’

‘The funeral.’

‘Oh. Great. No, I mean OK, it was small.’

‘He was a small man, eh?’

She glared at him: ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’

‘Did Roberts go?’

‘Yes, him and Mrs Roberts.’

‘Ah, the lovely Fiona. I could ride that.’

She slammed a cup on the sink, said:

‘Really, Sergeant. Are you trying to be deliberately offensive?’ He gave a look of near-innocence.

‘Me? Listen babe, don’t get yer knickers in a twist, this is my good side.’

She looked at him with distaste, said: ‘Your chin is bleeding.’

He wiped at it with an end of the towel, her favourite white fluffy one, said: ‘Them lady razors, near tore the face offa me.’

Another item for the bin, she sighed. He stood up, said: ‘I need to ask your... co-operation.’

‘Oh?’

‘If certain items – shall we say information – about the big cases, arrive, I’d appreciate a nod before it gets to Roberts.’

‘I don’t know, Sarge, I mean...

‘C’mon Falls. I’m not asking much. He’ll be informed. Eventually.’ Without another word, he went into the sitting room, dressed, and presented himself, asking: ‘How do I look?’

‘Er...

‘Yeah, I thought so. I’ve got to go chat to a junkie.’

She felt she’d been a tad cold, nay harsh, and tried to pull back a bit. In the hall, she said in a soft voice: ‘Sarge, thanks for not, you know, trying it on.’

‘Hey, I don’t jump the help, OK.’

Roberts had watched a documentary on Francis Bacon. He especially liked Bacon’s cry when he entered a club in Soho: ‘Champagne for my real friends. Real pain for my sham friends’. He was about to experience some major pain himself. The Chief Super was having more than a piece of Roberts’ hide and kept repeating: ‘I’m not the type to say “I told you so”.’

He was crowing over the ‘solution’ to the cricket murder. Roberts was seething, said quietly: ‘Oh, it’s been solved?’

‘Don’t take that tone with me, laddie. It’s solved as far as we’re concerned.’

Roberts wanted to shout: ‘Fuck you, sir, fuck the brass and the chain of command and the politicians.’ But he said: ‘If you say so, sir.’

‘I do say so. Our American cousins talk about bottom feeders. Are you cognizant with it?’

‘Bottom of the shit pile, sir, would that be close?’

‘Brant, now he’s a good example. Look here.’ And he threw a document across the desk, said: ‘The yard have been on to me. Your precious Detective Sergeant is accused of bribe-taking by a Mr Patel, of intimidation by a tobacconist in the West End, of brutality by an accused rapist, of freebies by a pizza company... the list goes on.’

Roberts barely glanced at it, said: ‘Nickel and dime. He’s a good copper.’

‘He’s finished, that’s what he is. I doubt even a cream arrest could save him.’

‘That’s white, sir. A White Arrest.’

‘Are you sure? Well, I want to ensure he doesn’t pull off one of those. So you’re back in charge of the vigilante business. See it’s put to bed quickly.’

‘Put to bed, sir?’

‘Get on with it, and I’ll remind you of thin ice yourself, questions have been asked before.’

With that he was dismissed. Outside he ran his finger along the rim of his ear. A passing WPC asked: ‘All right, sir, your ear I mean?’

‘Oh yeah, I’ve just had a flea put in it.’

A
LL HELL ERUPTED AT
the station as the news of the murder broke. The Super charged down the corridor, barged into Roberts’ office, roared: ‘You’re in for it now, laddy, there’s been another one.’

Roberts wanted to say, ‘I told you so’, but instead came running, said: ‘Someone surprise me, tell me Brant is here and reachable.’ Nobody surprised him.

The down-scaled ‘U’ incident room was activated and Roberts was given the details of the killing. He asked: ‘Any witnesses?’

‘No, sir.’

‘The weapon?’

‘A crossbow, Guv.’

‘Bloody hell. Wait until the press get wind of this.’

Silence.

‘What, they’re on to it already?’

‘Sorry, Guv.’

‘Holy shit, we’re fucked. So no chance of containment, the ol’ damage limitation?’

Many heads shook. Negative all the way.

Roberts sat, said: ‘Isn’t there any good news?’

Falls tried to lighten the mood, said: ‘Well, we’ve got a shoplifter in an interview room.’

He turned his full gaze to her. He spoke slowly: ‘That’s some sort of levity, I gather. How about this, WPC! Hop lightly to yer plod feet, go interview them and get out of my bloody sight!’

Roberts had thus made two mistakes. The first was not seeing the shoplifter. The second was alienating the hitherto loyal Falls.

T
HE UMPIRE’S FATHER HAD
adorned the house with framed portraits of cricket’s greatest. A who’s-who of the best. He’d point to them and shout: ‘You could have been better than any of them, but oh no, you’re a namby pamby, a mummy’s boy. You’ll never hold a light to these, these giants.’ Light, a light to light. He looked on it like a mantra of darkness.

His father’s pride was a three-year-old setter named Fred Truman. Sleek and arrogant, it ruled with ease. The day of the Umpire’s transformation, he recalls it like a vision.

The Dogs of War
was showing on BBC1. The screen’s image flicking back and forth across Fred Truman as he dozed. The Umpire had removed his father’s bat from the glass case and said: ‘Here boy, come and get it.’ As the dog’s head reared, the Umpire batted. He heard the crowds leap to their feet at Lords, the applause crescendoed at the Oval and the dog lay stunned. The Umpire laid the bat beside Fred and doused both with petrol. On the TV Christopher Walker loaded up as the match ignited, the words rose: ‘Cry havoc and let loose the dogs of...

•        •        •

Falls sat opposite her, put the file on the table and decided to ‘Brant’ it. Said: ‘Well, Penny or Penelope, which?’

No answer.

‘Okey-dokey, let’s settle for Penny, shall we?’

No answer.

‘You’re going to jail, Penny.’

Gasp!

‘Oh yes. I see you’ve been up twice before but got off on probation. Says here you agreed to have therapy. I hate to tell you, it isn’t working.’

‘I can’t. I can’t go to prison.’

‘I’m afraid so, Pen. The courts are sick of rich middle-aged women wasting their valuable time. You’ll do six months in Holloway. The girls there, they’ll appreciate a bit o’ class. Get yerself a nice lez, knit away the winter.’

Penny began to smile, said: ‘Oh, I don’t think so, you see, I have something to trade.’

‘This isn’t the bloody market, we don’t barter.’

‘Don’t be so sure. I need to see someone in authority.’ Here she gave extra dimension to the smile as she added: ‘I don’t think it’s really a decision for the indians. Go get the chief, there’s a good girl.’

Falls came close to clouting her, and realised that Brant might have the right idea. She rose and left the room, still wondering whether or not to go to Roberts. Two factors determined her next move: one, her anger at Roberts; two, almost colliding with Brant.

He said: ‘Whoa, little lady, don’t lose yer knickers.’

She told him, watched his face and calculated. He said: ‘I’ll have a word, shall I? You keep watch outside.’

‘Shouldn’t I be present?’

‘Outta yer league, darlin’. Tell you what though, I could murder a cuppa.’ And he opened the door, looked back and said: ‘Two sugars, love.’

Brant sat down slowly, his eyes on Penny. She said: ‘You’re a senior officer?’

He gave the satanic smile, asked in his best south-east London voice: ‘Whatcha fink, darlin’?’

‘I think you look like a thug.’

‘That too! So, honey –’

She snapped. ‘Don’t you dare call me that. I’m not your honey.’

‘Leastways not yet. Whatcha got?’

She got foolish and attempted to slap him. He caught her wrist and with the other hand double palmed her. The marks of his hand ran vivid on her cheeks. He asked: ‘Have I got your attention now?’

She nodded.

‘Okey-dokey, babe. What’s cooking?’

She told him about the CA, about Fiona. The whole shooting match. He listened without interruption until: ‘You pay for sex?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fuck me.’

‘Actually, it’s to avoid that very possibility that we do pay.’

He liked it, said approvingly: ‘Cheeky’ Then: ‘Run it all by me again, hon.’ She did.

He thought for a while, took out his Weights and absent-mindedly offered her one. She took it and waited for a light. He finally noticed, said: ‘Jaysus, do you want me to smoke it for you too?’ A knock at the door. Falls peered in, said: ‘The Chief Inspector is due this way.’

‘Shut the door.’ She did.

Brant drew on the last of his cigarette, sucked it till his cheekbones hit his eyes, leaned over close, said: ‘Here’s the deal. It’s not negotiable.’

‘When the first side has completed its innings, the other side starts its own. A match may consist of one or two innings by each side. If the match is not played out to a finish, it is regarded as a draw.’

T
HE FUNERAL FOR THE
first cricketer was a massive affair. The coffin was carried by his team mates and they’d donned the blazing whites. Even the Devon Malcolm racism storm was temporarily shelved. David ‘Syd’ Lawrence had called for Ray Illingworth to be banned from every TV and radio in the country. The former chairman of selectors was alleged to have called the Derbyshire paceman a ‘nig-nog’. Officers at Lords prayed the funeral would distract from the whole sordid affair. It did.

A huge police presence blocked off most of south-east London. It was feared the Umpire might try to annihilate the remaining nine in one fell swoop. Sky had obtained exclusive rights and was considering a whole series devoted to dead cricketers. It was rumoured that Sting was composing a song for the occasion, but this was proved to be only scare-mongering. It scared a lot of people.