The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead (32 page)

‘Rough?’

‘Well yes, actually I was going to say Celtic.’

Time for some brass humour. He said, ‘Naturally you’d be a Rangers man.’

‘Rugby League, sir.’

And they took a moment to savour their wee pleasantries. Then, ‘You’ll be watching out for the black woman, when she’s on decoy.’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘No need to over-do it, we don’t expect a result. Keep her outta mischief eh?’

‘Very good, sir.’

Now, time for the real bones. The Super leant over the desk, said, ‘DS Brant continues to be an embarrassment.’

McDonald waited.

‘If you were to perhaps, notice some infringement ... you’d be doing your duty to ... let me know.’

‘I’d be honoured, sir.’

‘Good man, capital ... see you anon.’

When McDonald got outside, he took a moment to gather himself. Near jumped when a finger touched his shoulder.

Brant. Who said, ‘Bit edgy boyo.’

Edgy, he was stunned, tried to recover, said feebly, ‘Oh you know how it is when you get a roasting.’

Brant was eyeballing him, said, ‘Oh? Got a bollockin’ did ya?’

‘Yes, sarge ... yes I did.’

Brant slapped him on the shoulder, said, ‘Well, keep you outta mischief.’

‘What?’

‘Good man, capital, see you anon.’

R
OBERTS HAD BEEN DIAGNOSED
with skin cancer. For eighteen months, he’d undergone radiation therapy. The treatment left him bone weary and with a mega thirst. Being a policeman had the same effect. Now, he was in the doctor’s surgery awaiting results of a checkup.

The doctor was at his desk doing medical stuff and looking grim. Which told him zilch. Finally, the doctor asked, ‘Do you smoke?’

‘What?’

‘It’s not a difficult question.’

Roberts thought, Oh ch-err-ist, what have I now?

‘No I don’t.’

‘Good man. Don’t start.’

‘What?’

The doctor smiled, not a pretty sight, said, ‘Though on this occasion, you might indulge in a small celebratory cigar.’

‘I’m OK?’

‘Yes, you are and, with care, there’s no reason you shouldn’t live another six months.’

When he saw Roberts face, he said, ‘Just kidding, a little medical levity. How often do I get to deliver good news?’

Roberts couldn’t quite take it in, had lived with bad luck, bad news, for so long, asked again, ‘And I’m OK?’

‘Just stay outta the sun.’

‘In England ... a tall order.’ Now they both laughed. A weather joke always broke the ice.

On his way out, Roberts said, ‘Thank you. I’ll do my damnest now to stop the malpractice suit.’

‘What?’

‘Just kidding, doc.’

After Roberts had left, the doctor lit a cigarette and hoped to hell it was a joke. You never could tell with cops.

•        •        •

Roberts said to Brant, ‘Let me get those, I’d some good news today.’

‘Sure thing, guv, though I’d ’ave ’ad a sarnie if I’d known you were paying.’

Roberts took the drinks, said, ‘Good news, not magnificent news.’

Brant looked longingly at the food cabinet, said, ‘They sure are tempting.’

They took a corner table at the back of the pub. A police position, to see and not be seen.

Brant said, ‘Your boy, the Scot, is hoping to shaft me.’

‘McDonald?’

‘Yeah, him.’

‘You’re getting paranoid, sarge, he’s all right.’

‘I heard the Super tell him.’

Roberts took a sip, then, ‘Oh sure what did you do ... bug his office?’

‘Yes.’

It took a moment to sink in. Then incredulity, ‘No ... not even you would be that crazy!’

‘The Super says I’m too Celtic.’

Roberts took his drink in a gulp, shook his head. Brant said, ‘Over on the Tottenham Court Road there’s a shop called Total Surveillance. A Spy Supermarket.’

Roberts put Up his hand, ‘Tell me no more. Good God, they’ll hang you out to dry.’

‘That’s what they want to do, guv, this way, I’m a jump ahead.’

‘You’re a flaming lunatic is what you are.’

Brant signalled to the barman. Then he roared, ‘Same again ... before the holidays.’

The drinks came and Brant said, ‘He’s paying. He’s had good news.’

The barman didn’t appear too pleased but said, ‘How nice.’

‘And I’ll have one of them sarnie jobs. Pop it in the toaster, let it near burn.’

The barman said, with dripping sarcasm, ‘Would there be any other jobs?’

‘Naw, you’re doing too much as it is.’

Roberts sulked till Brant asked, ‘Wanna know what they said about you?’

‘No I bloody don’t.’

Then a few minutes later, ‘Go on then.’

‘That you’re out on yer ass.’

‘Never.’

‘Would I lie? It’s on tape.’

‘Bastards, keep buggin’ ’em.’

B
ARRY LEWIS WAS THIRTY-TWO-YEARS-OLD
. Tall, with a slight stoop, he had blond hair in a buzz cut. Even features that missed being good looking. He was in shape due to two sessions weekly at the gym. Barry burned with hate. He’d recently lost his job ‘cooking’ at McDonald’s. Prior to that, he’d been with

Burger King,

Pizza Hut,

Pret a Manger.

A brief stint with British Rail was hardly worth mentioning. He never did.

All his supervisors had been black and female. Each time he’d start out well. He had it all:

Punctuality,

Cleanliness,

Friendliness.

He knew how to fit, he just didn’t know how to fit continuously. Slowly, the supervisors would all begin to notice, snap, ‘Wotcha always got yo’ eyes on me, white boy?’

As if he’d look at the bitches. So OK, once or twice he’d sneak a peek. Imagine that black flesh under his hand, all that heat. He swore out loud: ‘I never touched that cow at Burger King.’

Like that. He knew they wanted it.

Or that woman at Pizza Hut who’d asked, ‘Yo Barry, nice boy like you, how come you no got yourself a girlfriend?’

Putting him down. Making him go red and howling, ‘See, seed a white boy blushing.’

Packing his gear at British Rail, the knife was just lying there. It gleamed. Long black bone handle and the shining blade. Took it in his hand, it felt good. No ... it felt right, and he mimicked his tormentors, said, ‘Ah-rite.’

Slipped it in his jacket. He’d had no plan, no outline strategy. One evening he’d gone out, had a few beers, loosened up. A trendy pub off Clapham Common, Whitney Houston on the speakers. Jeez, he’d like to do it to her. Yeah, kick fuck outta Bobby Brown first. The woman just drifted into his line of vision.

She was with friends, head back laughing. Yeah, he saw the bitch touching the men on the knees, getting them hot. Followed her out and she said goodbye to the group. Headed off
alone
in London at night? Had to be begging for it.

Next thing he had the knife to her throat, shouting obscenities in her ear. After, he wanted to kill her. The following weeks, the need grew and he went hunting. He wasn’t even sure how many. Only six had gone to the cops.

He was famous. When he read the papers and they’d said, ‘Reign of Terror’, he’d felt omnipotent.

Now who was staring? Who was fucking blushing, eh?

Barry liked to cook. Had an Italian recipe book and was working through it. Regardless of ingredients, he always used garlic and would laugh out loud, thinking, Keep the vamps at bay. It never failed to amuse him.

He went into the new wine bar, had a glass of white. Not bad. Then he saw her. Felt the rush, oh yeah, she was next. Fit all the points,

Pretty

Black

Confident.

It was an added high because he knew he’d kill this one. On her way out, she bumped his back and he said, ‘My fault.’ Falls gave him her best smile.

•        •        •

Rosie had answered a routine call. Disturbance on the ground floor of a high-rise. Probably nothing, but she was sent to check anyway.

All quiet when Rosie got there, she banged on the door. A young woman answered, about twenty-two, her eyes had seen it all and none of it pretty. Launched into it. ‘It’s Jimmy, he’s back on smack, beat me when I said I’d no money.’

Rosie stepped in, asked, ‘Where’s Jimmy now?’

‘He’s nodding off in the bedroom.’

Rosie smiled, said, ‘I’ll have a word, eh.’

‘Tell him I’ve no money, he won’t believe me.’

Rosie went to the bedroom. The curtains were drawn and she tried the light. Nope. A figure was hunched on the bed, long hair hanging down. Rosie said, ‘Jimmy?’ No response. She moved over and put out her hand to touch him.

His hand came up and he sank his teeth in her hand, bit down. Rosie heard the woman scream, ‘Don’t let ’im touch yah, he’s got Aids.’

•        •        •

Brant was standing at the Oval. Roberts was due to pick him up. A guy had been clocking him, sussing him out. Brant was aware without being concerned. He knew it would be a hustle, he figured he’d heard them all. Finally, the guy approached, asked, ‘In the market for a good watch, mate?’

‘Sure.’

The guy looked round, said, ‘I’m not talking yer Bangkok monkeys. None of that rubbish. This is prime.’

‘Let’s have a look.’

‘It’s a Tag.’

When Brant didn’t react, the guy said, ‘Like Tag Heuer, man, top of the heap.’

Brant sighed, said, ‘Are you going to produce it or just keep yapping.’

Brant could see it in the guy’s eyes—‘a hook ... gotcha.’

Out came the watch and Brant took it, said, ‘It’s a fake.’

The guy was stunned. ‘It’s no fake.’

Then Brant took out his warrant card and the guy rolled his eyes. Taking off his own watch, Brant tried on the Tag, said, ‘So’s you don’t go away empty handed, I’m going to give you this original.’

The guy took it said, ‘It’s a Lorus!’

‘A real Lorus, not a copy.’

‘Lorus is a piece of shit, worth a fiver tops.’

Brant said, ‘Here’s my lift, gotta go.’

He got in and as Roberts moved into traffic, he looked back. The guy was still staring at the Lorus.

Brant adjusted the watch and Roberts asked, ‘That a Tag?’

‘Yup.’

‘A fake though.’

‘No, it’s the biz. I’m as amazed as you are.’

As they proceeded, Brant continued to sneak glances at it. He was well pleased.

Roberts said, ‘Mr Logan has an office at Camberwell Green.’

‘Yeah, and what’s he floggin’?’

‘Real estate.’

‘Figures.’

They parked in Denmark Hill, walked down.

Brant said, ‘Like in the movies, good cop, bad cop.’

‘I hate that crap.’

‘Me too ... so can I be the good guy?’

The office was busy. Three phones going in the outer. A receptionist asked, ‘Can I help?’

Brant showed the warrant card, said, ‘We need a moment of Mr Logan’s time.’

She sighed, truly pissed and said, ‘I dunno, we’re frightfully busy.’

Roberts said, ‘No prob. We’ll go and get
more
police and come barging back. How’d that be?’

She glared at Roberts, like she hated him, said, ‘Let me see.’ And strode into the back office.

Brant was looking at brochures, asked, ‘You live in Dulwich, guv?’

‘Yeah, me ’n’ Maggie Thatcher.’

Brant looked at the prices, whistled, said, ‘Jaysus, you can’t be hurting.’

The receptionist came back, said, ‘Mr Logan can spare you five minutes.’

Tommy rose to greet them. They both clocked the hurleys crossed above his desk. Brant flashed his card, said, ‘I’m DS Brant and this is my chief inspector.’

Tommy was affable, said, ‘Gentlemen ... please ... have a seat ... some tea ... coffee?’

‘No thanks.’

They didn’t sit. Brant asked, ‘Ever know a Tony Roberts?’

Tommy put his hand to his chin, like he was trying, said, ‘I remember a Tony Roberts in the early Woody Allen films.’

He pronounced it ‘fill-ums’ like an Irish broadcaster. Continued, ‘but I think he fell out with the Woodster and ended up in one of the Poltergeist things.’

He gave a little laugh, said, ‘I suppose you don’t mean him eh?’

Brant smiled, said to Roberts, ‘See all the stuff they learn in the nick, guv, all that time to kill?’

Tommy lost his affability. ‘Was there something else?’

Roberts was about to lose it when the door burst open. A woman was shouting, ‘Tommy, you asshole, you put a block on my account.’ Then saw he wasn’t alone, muttered, ‘Oh.’

Tommy did a little bow, said, ‘Gentlemen, my wife, Tina.’

She was five-foot-four-inches tall, thereabouts. A face almost too pretty. You got to thinking ... What’s she like when all the make-up’s off? Still. A lush body and she knew it. Playing men was her best act.

She turned to face Roberts and went, ‘Oh my-God-sweet-Jesus!’

Tommy didn’t know what was happening, but it wasn’t good. He said, ‘So Teen, I’ll catch you later, here’s some cash, eh.’

Roberts played a hunch, asked, ‘What is it, I remind you of someone ... that it? Do I look like Tony ... Tony Roberts, my brother?’

Tommy couldn’t help it, said, ‘Yer brother? Yah never said.’

Brant smiled.

Tina said, ‘No, it’s a dizzy spell. I don’t know who you mean.’

Roberts pressed on. ‘You know what they did to him Tina? Took a stick.’

He spun round, pointed at the hurleys, continued, ‘Like one of those and systematically broke every bone in his body.’

Tina sobbed, ‘Leave me alone.’

Tommy went to grab Roberts arm, shouting, ‘That’s it.’

Roberts turned and grabbed him by the shirt, ripping buttons and pushed him over the desk, said, ‘Don’t put yer hands on me, yah piece of shit.’

Brant said, ‘Guv.’

Roberts straightened up, took a deep breath, said, ‘I’ll frigging have you.’

Tommy tried to fix his suit, looked at the shirt, whined, ‘Yah tore it. Eighty nicker and he rips it.’

Now he spoke to Brant, ‘I have juice ... oh yeah ... you don’t mess with Tommy Logan. I have connections.’

Brant said, ‘You’re going to need ’em pal.’

On their departure, Roberts said to Tina, ‘He’s going down, be smart and don’t go with him.’

Tommy slammed the door. He moved over to Tina, raising his fist, said, ‘Yah stupid cow.’