Ken Bruen - A White Arrest

Falls said to Rosie: ‘You know how much it’s gonna cost to bury Dad?’

‘Uh-uh. A lot?’

‘Two and a half grand.’

‘What? You could get married for that.’

‘And that doesn’t even include flowers or the vicar’s address.’

‘You have savings, right? You do have savings?’

‘Ahm…

‘Oh Lord, you’re skint!’

Falls nodded. Rosie searched for alternatives, then: ‘Could you burn him?’

‘What?’

‘Sorry, I mean, cremate him.’

‘He was against that.’

Rosie gave a bitter laugh. ‘C’mon girl, I don’t think old Arthur has really got a shout in this. He couldn’t give a toss what happens now, eh?’

‘I can’t. I’d feel haunted.’

‘Typical. Even in death, men stick to you. What about the Police Benevolent Fund?’

‘I’ve been. They’ll cough up part of the dosh, but seeing as he wasn’t one of the force…

Rosie knew another way but didn’t wish to open that can of worms. Or worm. She said: ‘There is one last resort.’

‘Anything. Oh God, Rosie, I just want him planted so I can move on.’

‘Brant.’

‘Oh no.’

‘You’re a desperate girl. He does have the readies.’ Then Rosie, to change the subject, patted her new hairstyle. It was de rigueur dyke. Brushed severely back, right scraped from her hairline to flourish in a bun. She asked: ‘So what do you think of my new style? I know you have to have some face to take such exposure.’

Falls gave it the full glare. She couldn’t even say it highlighted the eyes, a feature that should be deep hid, along with the rest. The eyes were usually a reliable cop-out. To the ugliest dog you could safely say: ‘You have lovely eyes.’ Not Rosie.

Falls blurted: ‘You have to have some bloody cheek.’ But Rosie took it as a compliment, gushed: I’ll let you have the address of the salon, they’ll see you on short notice.’ Falls wanted to say: ‘Saw you coming all right.’ But instead: ‘That’d be lovely’

Brant came swaggering in and Rosie said: ‘Oh, speak of the devil… Sergeant.’

And over he came, the satanic smile forming: ‘Ladies?’

‘WPC Falls has a request. I’ll leave you to it.’

And she legged it. Brant watched her, then said to Falls: ‘What the Jaysus happened to her hair?’

Shannon was in a cafe on the Walworth Road, not a spit from the old Carter Street Station. He’d ordered a large tea. As it came, an old man asked: ‘Is this seat taken?’

‘No, sir.’

The man was surprised, manners were as rare as Tories on that patch. He sat down and was about to say so when the young man said: ‘No umpire should be changed during a match without the consent of both captains.’

‘Eh?’

‘Before the toss the umpire shall agree with both captains on any special conditions affecting the conduct of the match.’

‘Ah, bit of a cricket buff are you?’

‘Before and during a match, the umpires shall ensure that the conduct of the game and the implements used are strictly in accordance with the laws.’

The old man wondered if he should move but there were no other seats. Plus he was gasping for a brew. He tried: ‘Day off work, ’ave you?’

The Umpire smiled, reached over and with his index finger, touched the man’s lips, said: ‘Time to listen, little man, lest those very lips be removed.’

Before the man could react, the Umpire stood up and came round the table, put his arm over the old man’s shoulders, whispered: ‘The umpire shall be the sole judge of fair and unfair play.’

The waitress, watching, thought ahh, it’s his old dad, isn’t that lovely? You just don’t see that sort of affection any more. It quite made her day.

As Brant sat with Falls, the canteen radio kicked in, Sting with ‘Every Move You Make’. Brant grimaced, said: ‘The stalker’s anthem.’

Falls listened a bit, said: ‘Good Lord, you’re right.’

He gave a nod, indicative of nothing. She got antsy, didn’t know where to begin, said: ‘I dunno where to begin.’

He took out his Weights. Asked: ‘D’ya mind?’

‘Personally no, but it is a no smoking zone.’

He lit up, said: ‘Fuck ’em.’ And waited.

Falls wanted to leave. A silent Brant was like a loaded weapon, primed. But she had no alternative. In a small voice, she said: ‘I’m in a spot of bother.’

‘Money or sex?’

‘What?’

‘It’s always one or the other, always.’

‘Oh, right, it’s money.’

‘How much?’

‘Don’t you want to know what for?’

‘Why, what difference does that make? I’ll either give it to you or I won’t, a story won’t help.’

‘It’s a lot.’

He waited.

‘It’s three thou.’

She never knew why she went the extra. Called it nerves, but didn’t believe it.

‘OK.’

She couldn’t believe it, said: ‘Just like that?’

‘Sure, I’m not a bank, you don’t have to bleed.’

‘Oh God, that’s wonderful, I’m in your debt.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘In my debt, like you said, you owe me.’

‘Oh.’

He got up to leave, asked: ‘Was there anything else?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll have the money by close of business — that OK with you?’

‘Of course. I — ’

But he was gone.

Brant was in the ‘E’ room. Expecting a long run. Someone had hooked up a microwave. He looked through the goodies and found a Cornish pasty, muttered ‘Mmm,’ and put it in the micro. Zapped it twice and had it out. Took an experimental bite and stomped his foot, tears running from his eyes. The pasty, blazing, had fastened to the roof of his mouth. He grabbed a coke bottle and swallowed. Finally the burning eased and he said: ‘Jaysus.’

A passing WPC said: ‘Don’t touch the Cornish, Sarge, they’re way past their date.’

The phone rang and he snatched it: ‘Incident room “E”.’

‘Are you investigating the hangings?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘I have some information.’

‘Good, that’s good. And your name, sir?’

‘To prove I’m legit, check the last victim’s fingers.’

‘Might be a tad difficult, mate — sir.’

‘Because of the torching? I doubt that would disguise broken fingers. I’ll call back in an hour.’ And the caller hung up.

Brant was electric, got on to Roberts and the coroner. When Roberts arrived, he told him of the call and of the coroner’s confirmation: ‘The bugger was right, and what’s more, I’ve set up for a trace, he was ringing from a mobile, it kept breaking up. We’ll have him if he calls back.’

Roberts was impressed, said: ‘I’m impressed.’

Brant could feel his adrenaline building. It felt like a hit. Roberts took a seat. A picture of calm, he said: ‘Could be the one, the White Arrest.’

Brant had already raced to the same conclusion, was feeling generous in his victory: ‘For us both, Guv.’

‘No, this is all your own, another Rilke, maybe.’

The phone rang. Brant signalled to the technicians, who gave him the green light, and he picked up: ‘Incident room ‘E’.’

‘You checked the fingers?’

‘We’re just waiting for confirmation.’

‘We’re not criminals, we’re only doing what the courts are failing to do.’

Roberts made an S motion in the air. Stall.

‘Why don’t you come in, we’ll have a chat, work something out.’

But the caller was on a different track. ‘It wasn’t meant to be like this, you know, not white people. Not that I’m a racist.’

Brant tried it on. ‘Course you’re not, I mean you live in Brixton, right?’