Ken Bruen - The McDead

Neville was blubbering, ‘Let me make it up to you … money…

‘Shaddup!’ Tommy said. And, as if he’d just thought of it, ‘Course, the car’s to blame.’

Neville, sensing a tiny shimmer of hope, said, ‘You’re right … one gets carried away.’

Tommy smiled said, ‘It must be punished … bad car.’

Tommy pushed Neville out to the garage.

Took a look round then said, ‘My man has just the ticket.’

Mick came in, dragging the woman and carrying a hurley, handed it to Tommy, who took it and gave a slow swing. Asked, ‘Isn’t it a beauty?’

Handed the hurley to Neville, said, ‘Go on … won’t bite you.’

For a moment, as he held it, a fire touched his eyes.

Tommy laughed, ‘Don’t even think about it or I’ll make you eat it.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Punish the car, beat the living daylights outta it and keep saying “bad car”.’

Tommy looked over at Neville’s wife, said, ‘If you don’t, my man there is going to fuck her all over this garage. Trust me, he’s an animal.’

Neville lifted the hurley, said, ‘Bad car.’

Brant was sitting in his armchair, smoking and thinking. In his career, he’ d broken two major cases with a hunch. He’d acted on them when all the evidence pointed elsewhere. He’d play what he knew, then let it settle, add in the possibilities and bingo, he’d get an answer.

Now he sat bolt upright in his chair, said, ‘Jesus.’ Then he got on the phone, said, ‘It’s Brant.’

‘Sergeant, how are you? Did the bugging device work?’

‘Like a dream.’

‘Good, do you need something?’

‘A hidden camera.’

‘No problem, where is it to go?’

‘In a kitchen.’

‘Mmm, tricky to install.’

‘It’s my own kitchen.’

‘Right … when?’

‘Now.’

‘Gimme yer address, I’ll be there in an hour.’

Brant gave it, said, ‘I appreciate it.’

‘A pleasure.’

‘I’ll watch for you.’

The man laughed, said, ‘Sergeant, leave the surveillance to us, it’s what we do.’

That evening when Cheta arrived, she was carrying bags of groceries. First off she gave him a swallowing kiss, then pushed him off, with ‘ Hombre … my caballero, first we eat.’

Needling, he said, ‘Let’s go out.’

No way. She indicated the bags of stuff.

‘This is especial, now … you relax, the kitchen is mine … no hombres allowed.’

He made as if to follow, ‘That’s not very liberated.’

She threw her hands, mock horror, said, ‘I am Spanish.’

‘OK … what’s on the menu?’

‘Paella … with the recipe of Andalucia, gorelax. ’

He opened a beer but barely touched it, gave her forty-five minutes, then, ‘Honey, I’ve got to go.’

She came storming out, ‘How? I hear no phone.’

‘My mobile, very discreet but it’s urgent.’

‘But the dinner … is ready … have pocito, taste.’

He was already at the door, ‘I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.’

‘Will I wait?’

‘No, it’s an all nighter.’

He waited outside in the Volvo. He figured she was cunning but none too smart. They rarely got to be both. After half-an-hour, a cab pulled up, she came out, gave her destination, never looked round. She lived in Streatham, back of the swimming pool. A row of terraces in the passageway, she went into the second.

As he drove away, he phoned Roberts, asked, ‘Like to see a video?’

‘What now?’

‘It’s a one-off, you’ll recognise the star.’

‘Do I bring anything.’

‘Handcuffs, probably.’

The picture was quality, none of that grainy effect. If Brant thought it was strange to watch her in his own kitchen, he didn’t show it. Just smoked a lot of Weights. They could see her put the paella on the plates then go to her bag, extract a small bottle and douse one plate.

Brant said, ‘Guess who that’s for.’

Then she was gone.

Brant explained, ‘It’s me telling her I’m off.’

Back she came and they could see her rage as she scraped the dishes into the bin.

Roberts asked, ‘You have the bin?’

‘Oh yeah.’

Next she tidied up, washed all the gear, even wiped the floor. Roberts said, ‘Good little housekeeper though.’

Brant smiled, answered, ‘Deadly.’

The lab test showed liquid arsenic.

Roberts asked, ‘Wanna come when we give her a tug?’

‘No … I’ll pass I think.’

Later, Roberts said, ‘Buy you a drink?’

‘Yeah great, but a pub with no barmaids.’

‘Right.’

After they’d had a few, Roberts asked, ‘Wanna hear about it?’

‘Sure.’

‘She had a reason.’

‘Oh good, that makes it all right then.’

Roberts signalled for another round, said, ‘She claims she never intended to kill, just to sicken you as it is men always sickened her.’

Brant took a belt of scotch, said, ‘A nutter eh?’

‘Barking.’

Roberts felt he should offer some support or even solace. But, all he could give was, ‘Don’t let it put you off women.’

Brant gave a huge belch, said, ‘It sure as hell put me off paella.’

‘I’m a spiritual person,’ the man said to Porter Nash. It was a rite of passage at any new station, you got the loopy cases. This was certainly that.

The man had been attacked by a pimp and a hooker. They’d given him a sound thrashing. Nash asked, ‘How did you happen to ah … meet these people?’

The man sighed, he didn’t suffer fools gladly.

‘I go to professional ladies and to demonstrate their baseness to them, I pay them in a similar coinage.’

‘You’re not a priest, are you?’

Tolerant smile, ‘I’m a deacon of the flesh.’

Nash read the charge sheet again. He was getting a migraine. He said, ‘You gave the lady two forged fifties.’

‘It’s debauchery, paid for by deceit.’

Nash asked, ‘Where do you get the funny money?’

‘A chap in an ale house had a bag of them, a British Homes Store brand … yes, I’m sure of that.’

Nash said, ‘You’ll go down for … something.’

The man stood up, ‘I’ll embrace the penitentiary.’

‘Believe me, they’ll help you.’

As they took him away, he shouted, ‘I see auras.’

‘Course you do.’

‘And yours, sir, is blue.’

Nash had to ask, ‘That good?’

‘’Ish.’

He went to the canteen and the tea lady was delighted anew with his manners. Ordered tea and got two slices of toast he hadn’t ordered, said, ‘I didn’t order toast.’

She gave a full silver toothed smile, ‘It’s my little treat.’

‘Gosh … how wonderful.’

Thinking, if he got five minutes with a novel, he’d better meet the day. Had a round of toast drenched and dripping in butter, then opened his book.

‘Can I join you?’

Falls.

He thought, Ah, shag off, is it too much to ask for a few minutes?

He said, ‘Please do.’

She asked, ‘Wotcha reading?’

‘It’s Jane Smiley’s A Thousand Acres. ’

‘I dunno her.’

He wanted to roar, ‘Quelle surprise!’, but said, ‘She won the Pulitzer.’

‘That’s good?’

‘It’s not bad.’

‘Is it good?’

‘Well, I’m only on the third acre but it’s boring the pants off me.’

She laughed, said, ‘Thanks for not treating me like an ignoramus.’

He offered the toast, saying, ‘It’s heaven.’

She took it, asked, ‘How’d you get toast like this?’

He only smiled, so she said, ‘I think we’re mates.’