Ken Bruen - The McDead

‘Am I dying?’

Answer that. Do you lie big and say, like in the movies, ‘Naw, it’s just a scratch,’? Or, clutch his hand real tight and say, ‘I ain’t letting you go, bro’?

Chief Inspector Roberts was a professional; a professional liar, among other things. It didn’t teach you that in the police manual. No, that came with promotion. He considered all the lines he could use. What he said was, ‘You’re dying.’

Roberts had got the call at three in the morning. The hour of death. Coming reluctantly out of sleep, he muttered, ‘This better be bloody good.’ And heard, ‘James!’

No one used his Christian name, not even his wife. He said, ‘Tony … Good Lord … where are you? D’ya know what time it is?’ And heard a sad laugh.

Then: ‘I didn’t ring to ask the time. I’m hurt … I’m hurt pretty bad.’

He sounded hurt, his speech was coming through slow and laboured. Eventually, Roberts pinned down an address, said, ‘Don’t move, I’m on me way.’

Again, the sad laugh, ‘I won’t move, I can guarantee it.’ Roberts dressed quickly. His wife was asleep in another room. Yeah, like that.

‘Would it fuck.’ Roberts said aloud, ‘God, I haven’t much called on you … I know … but maybe this would be a good place to start.’

He’d learned from his sergeant, a dubious example of Catholicism, that it was a bartering thing. You did something for God, He did something for you. Like the Masons really.

He wasn’t sure what he had to trade and said, ‘I’ll … ah … do good works.’ What that entailed he’d no idea. Perhaps buy The Big Issue more regularly and not wait for change.

Yeah, it was a place to start. He waited, then tried the ignition again.

Nope

Nada

Zilch

He glanced briefly upwards, said:

‘It’s about what I figured.’

A mini-cab later and he arrived in Stockwell, where the pitbulls travelled in twos. Ludlow Road is near the tube station, a short mugging away. At that hour the streets were littered with

the undead,

the lost, and

the frozen.

The building was a warren of bedsits. No lock on the front door. A wino was spread in the hall, his head came up wheezed: ‘Is it Tuesday?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

Roberts wondered if the guy even knew the year but hey … he was going to argue? He said, ‘It’s Thursday … OK?’

‘Ah, good. I play golf on Tuesdays.’

Of course.

Flat six had a cleaner door than most. It was ajar. Roberts entered slowly. Entered devastation-ville. The place had been thrashed, cushions slit open, TV smashed, broken chairs and crockery, and his broken brother lying in the bathroom. He was a mess of blood and bruising. From the angle of his legs, Roberts knew they were gone. He opened his eyes, well, half opened one. The other was shut down. By a hammer it seemed.

He said, ‘James, can I get you something?’

And Roberts tried not to smile, bent down said:

‘I called an ambulance.’

His brother seemed to have lost consciousness, then said: ‘Oh good, is it a weekender?’

A south-east London maxim. You called one on a weekday, could expect it on Saturday. Roberts didn’t know what to do, said: ‘I dunno what to do.’

That’s when Tony asked if he was dying. He tried to cradle his brother’s head, there was blood everywhere, asked, ‘Who did this, Tone?’

‘Tommy Logan.’

Before he could ask more, his brother convulsed, then let his head back, and died. When the medics arrived and scene of crime boyos, Roberts was led outside to the ruined sitting room. As they moved the body, a mobile fell to the floor. The officer in charge said, ‘I’m sorry, guv, but I have to ask some questions, you understand.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did he say anything?’

‘No.’

The officer tried to proceed delicately, asked, ‘He called you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And he didn’t give any indication of what had happened?’

‘He said he was hurt and could I come.’

‘Yes?’

‘I came.’

‘Right … was he … ah … conscious … when you got here?’

‘No.’

The officer looked round, said, ‘I see.’ But he didn’t. Went another direction, asked, ‘Were you close, guv?’

‘Close?’

‘You know, like regular contact?’

Roberts focused, then said, ‘I spoke to him ten years ago … maybe eleven.’

‘Ah, so you weren’t, then?’

Roberts turned his full look on the officer, said, ‘No wonder you’re a detective.’

WPC Falls was standing in front of the Superintendent. He was drinking tea and drinking it noisily. It’s a very difficult task to chew tea but he appeared to have mastered it.

Gnaw

gnaw

gnaw

Like an anorexic rodent. He’d get it down but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Worse. A biscuit, a club milk. He slid open the wrapper, then carefully peeled back the silver paper, said, ‘They’re well protected.’

Did he mean the public, criminals, tax dodgers? So, she just said, ‘Yes, sir.’ Which is about as unthreatening an answer as you can get.

WPC Falls was black and pretty or, as they said in the canteen, ‘She’s pretty black’. Argue the toss. Recently, she’d fucked up spectacularly in both her personal and professional life. She’d been pregnant and had gone after an arsonist alone. Nearly killed, she’d lost the baby and almost her job.

DS Brant had forced her along to arrest a hit man. It had saved her job and restored some of her confidence. Not all, but definitely in the neighbourhood. After, he’d said, ‘You know Falls, you’re getting a mean look.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, a nastiness around the eyes.’

She couldn’t resist, said, ‘Like you, sergeant?’

He laughed, answered, ‘See what I mean? Yeah … like me and, if you’re real smart, you’ll work on it.’

Surprised, she asked, ‘Will it go away?’

‘Fuck no, you’ll get meaner.’

The Super put the biscuit to the side, said, ‘Gratification postponed is gratification doubled.’

Falls had a flurry of thoughts- Thank Christ he didn’t start on the biscuit. Yer pompous fart- all hedging on the insubordinate. She cautioned herself. Chill to chill out. Now the prize prick was flicking through her file adding sighs, tut-tuts, teeth clicking, every few pages. Finally, he sat back, said, ‘A checkered career to date.’

‘Yes sir.’

Now he was tapping a pen against his teeth, exclaimed, ‘And such promise, you have the potential. Oh yes.’

Falls thought, Yeah, I’m black and a woman.

He closed the file then, as if only now was the idea crystallising, said, ‘I’m going to take a chance on you Falls, eh.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘No doubt you’re familiar with the Clapham Rapist?’

Who wasn’t? A serial, he’d attacked six women, six black women. The lefties were kicking up a stink. Phrases such as ‘selective policing’ were surfacing.

He continued: ‘You’ll be living in a bedsit in Clapham, going to pubs, clubs, all the places this johnnie hunts.’

She tried to restrain herself but couldn’t, said, ‘A decoy?’

He gave a tolerant smile, said, ‘Not a term we’re keen on my girl, smacks of entrapment. We’ll have you covered all the way.’ Sure. ‘So, are you up to the job? I’ve picked you especially.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Thank you sir. Won’t let you down sir, etc.

Brown-nosing to screaming point.

‘Good, the desk sergeant has the details. PC McDonald will be assisting you … that’s all.’