Ken Bruen - A White Arrest

Fiona hesitated, then asked: ‘And the men, are they young?’

‘None over twenty and pecs to die for.’

‘OK then — should I bring anything?’

‘Your imagination. Let’s party!’

Brant didn’t knock, just strode into Roberts’ office.

‘You don’t knock?’

‘Gee, Guv, I was so keen to answer your summons, I clean forgot.’

‘Keen!’

‘Aye, keen as mustard, Guv.’

‘Don’t call me Guv, this isn’t The Sweeney.’

‘And you’re no Reagan, eh? Here, I’ve another McBain for you.’

He tossed a dog-eared book on to the desk. It looked like it had been chewed, laundered and beaten. Roberts didn’t touch it, said: ‘You found this in the toilet, that’s it?’

‘It’s his best yet. No one does the Police Procedural like Ed.’

Roberts leaned over to see the title. A food stain had obliterated that. At least he hoped it was food. He said: ‘You should support the home side, read Bill James, get the humorous take on policing.’

‘For humour, sir, I have you — my humour cup overflowed!’

The relationship twixt R and B always seemed a beat away from beating. You felt like they’d like nothing better than to get down and kick the living shit out of each other. Which had happened. The tension between them was the chemistry that glued. Co-dependency was another word for it.

The phone rang, postponing further needling.

Roberts snapped it and Brant heard: ‘What, a lamppost? Where? When? Jesus! Don’t friggin touch him. No! Don’t cut him down. Keep the press away. Oh shit. We’re on our way’ And he put the phone down.

Brant smiled, asked: ‘Trouble, Guv?’

‘A lynching. In Brixton.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘Do I look like I’m bloody kidding? And they left a note.’

‘What? Like “Back at two”?’

‘How the hell do I know? Let’s go.’

‘Right, Guv.’

‘What did I tell you Brant, eh? Did I tell you not to bloody call me that?’

Brant said: ‘Don’t forget McBain, we’ll need all the help we can get.’

Roberts picked it up and, with a fine overhead lob, landed it in the dustbin and said: ‘Bingo.’

By the time Brant and Roberts arrived in Brixton a crowd had already gathered. The yellow police lines were being ignored. Roberts called to a uniformed sergeant, said: ‘Get those people back behind the lines.’

‘They won’t move, sir.’

‘Jesus, are you deaf? Make ’em.’

The medical examiner had arrived and was gazing up at the dangling corpse with a look of near admiration.

Roberts asked: ‘Whatcha think, doc?’

‘Drowning, I’d say.’

Brant laughed out loud and got a dig from Roberts.

The doctor said: ‘Unless you’ve got a ladder handy, I suggest you cut him down.’

Roberts gave a grim smile, turned to Brant, said: ‘Your department, I think.’

Brant grunted and summoned two constables. With complete awkwardness and much noise, they lifted him level with the corpse. A loud ‘boo’ came from the crowd, plus calls of:

‘Watch your wallet, mate.’

‘Give ’im a kiss, darling.’

‘What’s your game then?’

When Brant finally got the noose free, the corpse sagged and took him down in a heap atop the constables. More roars from the crowd and a string of obscenities from Brant.

Roberts said: ‘I think you’ve got him, men.’

As Brant struggled to his feet, Roberts asked: ‘Any comments?’

‘Yeah, the fucker forgot to brush his teeth and I can guarantee he didn’t floss.’

The cricket captain was tending his garden when Pandy came by. A local character, he was so called because of the amount of times he’d ridden in a police car. His shout had been: ‘It’s the police, gis a spin in de pandy.’ They did.

Booze hadn’t as much turned his brain to mush as let it slowly erode. Norman had always been good to him, with cash, clothes, patience.

When Pandy told the drinking school he knew the famous captain, they’d given him a good kicking. Years of Jack, meths, surgical spirit had bloated his face into a ruin that would have startled Richard Harris.

He said: ‘Mornin’, Cap!’

‘Morning, Pandy. Need anything?’

‘I’ve an urge for the surge, a few bob for a can if you could?’ Once, Norman had seen him produce a startling white handkerchief for a crying woman. It was the gentleness, the almost shyness of how he’d offered it. Norman slipped the money over and Pandy, his eyes in a nine-yard stare, said:

‘I wasn’t always like this, Cap.’

‘I know, I know that.’

‘Went to AA once, real nice crowd, but the Jack had me then, they said I had to get a sponsor.’

‘A what?’

‘Sponsor, like a friend, you know, who’d look out for you.’

‘And did you get one?’

Pandy gave a huge laugh, said in a cultured voice: ‘Whatcha fink, take a wild bloody guess.’

Norman, fearful of further revelations, said: ‘I better get on.’

‘Cap?’

‘Yes?’

‘Will… will youse be me sponsor?’

‘Ahm…

‘Won’t be a pest, Cap, it’ll be like before but just so I’d have one. I’d like to be able to say it, just once.’

‘Sure, I’d be privileged.’

‘Shake.’

And he held out a hand ingrained with dirt beyond redemption. Norman didn’t hesitate, he took it.

When Pandy had gone, Norman didn’t rush to the kitchen in search of carbolic soap. He continued to work in the garden, his heart a mix of wonder, pain and compassion.

He’d be dead for weeks before his sponsor learnt the news.

Kevin, without knowing it, used an Ed McBain title. As he greeted the ‘E’ crew with ‘Hail, hail, the gang’s all here.’

He was tripping out, had sampled some crack cocaine and gone into orbit, shouting: ‘I can see fucking Indians. And they’re all bus conductors.’

He trailed off in a line of giggles. When the crew had taken their first victim, they had also ‘confiscated’: a) a mountain of dope; b) weapons; c) heavy cash.

Kevin, sampling all these like a vulture on assignment, roared: ‘I love LA!’

Albert, worried, had asked: ‘Is it dangerous?’ Meaning the drugs, and got a nasty clip round the earhole.

‘Dope is risky for those who’re fucked up to start. See me, it’s recreational, like, that’s why they call them that.’

‘Call them what?’

He dealt Albert another clip and answered: ‘Recreational drugs, you moron. What is it, you gone deaf? Listen to that monkey’s shit. Wake up fella, it’s the nineties ending.’

He set up another line of the white.

Patrick Hamilton wrote: ‘Those whom God deserted are given a room and a gas fire in Earls Court.’

If homelessness is the final rung of the downward spiral, then a bedsit may be the rehearsal for desperation. In a bedsit in Balham, a man carefully pinned a large poster of the England cricket team to his wall. He stood back and surveyed it, said:

‘To you who are about to die — here is my salute.’

And he swallowed deep, then spat at the poster. As the saliva dribbled down the team, he half turned, then in one motion launched a knife with ferocity. It clattered against the wall, didn’t hold, fell into the line. He took a wild kick at it, screaming:

‘You useless piece of shit.’

The knife had come from Man of War magazine. Monthly, it catered for would-be mercenaries, Tories and psychos. Their mail-order section featured all the weapons necessary for a minor bloodbath. The ‘throwing knife’ was guaranteed to hit and pierce with ‘deadly accuracy’. The man dropped to the floor and began his morning regime of harsh exercises, shouted: