Ken Bruen: The McDead

‘It’s OK. Anything else?’

‘Well, they got in a profiler … just like the telly. He said the attacker was a white male in his thirties and that the violence would escalate. It has. He used the knife last time almost as if he were working up to a kill.’

She shuddered and said, ‘Don’t do it girl, say you’re not completely recovered.’

Falls gave her the look and Rosie said, ‘Please be extra careful.’

‘I will, I promise, so there.’

‘You know that rape is about hate, not sex.’

‘I read the report.’

‘Oh … and here’s you lettin’ me prattle on. Then you know about the garlic.’

‘What?’

‘All the victims mentioned his breath stank of it.’

‘Gee, that should narrow it down. We can eliminate all young males with fresh breath.’

‘Of which, in the whole of London, there’s probably five.’

‘Five percent?’

‘No, just five.’

Falls thought about Brant, then asked, ‘Do I look different to you Rosie?’

‘You mean … since?’

‘Yeah.’

‘A little quieter.’

‘Do I look … mean?’

Rosie hugged her, said, ‘You always looked mean.’

McDonald was summoned to the Super’s office. When he got inside, the Super came to shake his hand, did the Masonic bit. The Super sat and said, ‘Take a pew son.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘You set for bigger things?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘But we must be seen to go through the motions. Are you with me?’

‘Absolutely, sir, one hundred per cent.’

‘That’s the ticket. Did you know Scots are the back-bone of the force?’

He didn’t, said, ‘No, sir.’

‘Oh yes. Now the Irish are … what’s the word, too…

‘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.’

Roberts 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.’

Barry 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?’