Ken Bruen - A White Arrest

‘Gimme one hundred, mister.’

As he pumped, the letters on his right arm, burned tattoo-blue against the skin: SHANNON. Not his real name, but the character from Frederick Forsyth’s Dogs of War. Unlike the fictional character, he didn’t smoke, drink, drug. The demons in his mind provided all the stimulation he would ever need. Words hammered through his head as he pounded the floor:

Gimmie a little country or gimmie rock ’n’ roll but launch me to Armageddon I will smote the heathers upon the playing fields of Eton and low I will lay their false Gods of sporting legend I will I will I am I am the fucking wrath of the nineties. The new age of devastation.

Brant and Roberts were sitting in the canteen. Not saying a whole lot. Both had newspapers, both tabloids. None of the Guardian liberal pose in here. In his office, Roberts kept the Telegraph on top, lest the brass look in.

They were comfortable, at odd times sometimes were. Grunts of approval, decision, amazement. Of course the obligatory male cry had to be uttered periodically to emphasise there were no pooftahs here:

‘Fwor, look at the knockers on ’er.’

‘See this wanker? He ate the vicar’s dog.’

Emboldened by the reassuring bonding of the sports page, Brant put his page down, had a look around, then took out his cigs, asked: ‘Mind if I do, Guv?’

Roberts raised his eyebrows, said: ‘And what? You’ll refrain if I do mind?’

Brant lit up, asked: ‘You packed ’em in, Guv. How long now?’

‘Five years, four weeks, two days and… Roberts looked at his watch, ‘…Nine hours. More or less.’

‘Don’t miss ’em at all, eh?’

‘Never give ’em a moment’s thought.’

Brant’s chest gave a rumble, phlegm screaming ‘OUT’ and he said: ‘You heard about the new kid. Tome?’

‘It’s Tone, but what?’

‘He answered a mugging call. An old-age pensioner was set upon by four kids. Took his pension. The usual shit. So, along comes the bold Tone, says: ‘Why didn’t you fight back?’

Roberts laughed out loud, said: ‘He never!’

‘Straight up, Guv, the old boy says, “I’m eighty-six fugging years old, what am I gonna do, bite then with my false teeth?” Then, Tone asks if he got a description and the old boy says: “Yeah, they were in their teens with baseball caps and them hooded tops, like half a million other young thugs. But they used offensive language. Might that be a clue?”’

Roberts went and got some more tea and two chocolate snack biscuits.

Brant said: ‘Don’t wanna be funny, Guv, but I’d prefer coffee.’

‘Who can tell the difference? So, are you going to watch out for young Tone?’

‘You think I should?’

‘Yes. Yes I do.’

‘All righty then, we’ll make a fascist of him yet.’

‘That I don’t doubt.’

After Brant had left Roberts returned to his paper. He wanted to read an interview with John Malkovich. He’d seen him give Clint Eastwood the run around in the late night movie, In the Line of Duty. And here’s what he read:

‘“What the public perceives is shit and what they think is vomit for the best part. The public doesn’t read Faulkner, it reads Danielle Steele. The movies they think are good I couldn’t even watch.’ — actor John Malkovich.”

‘Good Lord’, said Roberts, ‘The man has the soul of a copper, pure brass.’ There was a photo of the actor, shaved skull, predatory eyes, and Roberts thought: ‘You ugly bastard.’ Yet, as is the way of a loaded world, woman adored him. Unconsciously, Roberts’ hand ran over his head. The gesture brought no comfort. He remembered when he first courted Fiona — the sheer adrenaline rush of just being in her presence. He missed two people: a) the girl she was; b) the person she’d made him feel he might have been. A deep sigh escaped him.

Back at the station, Roberts was summoned to the Chief Super’s office. Chief Superintendent Brown resembled a poor man’s Neil Kinnock. For a time he’d cultivated the image but as the winds of political change blew, and blew cold, he’d tried to bury it. His thinning black hair was dyed — and very badly. Men believe they can pop into Boots, buy the gear and do the job at home: presto! A fresh colour of youth and no one the wiser. Oh boy, even the postman knows. Women go to a salon, pay the odds and get it done professionally. The Chief’s latest colour was darker than a Tory soul. Roberts knocked, heard: ‘Enter.’ Thought: ‘Wanker.’

Brown was gazing at his framed photos of famous batsmen, said: ‘Time-wasting by batsmen — like to explain that to me, laddie?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Very well, I’ll tell you: other than in exceptional circumstances, the batsman should always be ready to strike when the bowler is ready to start his run.’

Then he waited. Roberts wasn’t sure if he required an ‘Oh, well done, sir!’ or not. He settled for not.

Brown ummed and ah’d, then said: ‘The newspaper chappies have been on to me.’

‘About the hanging?’

‘What hanging?’

Roberts explained and Brown shouted: ‘Hard not to approve eh, but hardly pc.’

‘No. I’m referring to some crackpot called the Umpire, who’s threatened to kill the cricket team.’

Roberts smiled, said: ‘Then the bugger will have to stand inline.’

Brown gave him the Kinnock look, all insulted dignity.

‘Really, Chief Inspector, that’s in appalling bad taste. Probably some nut-case, eh?’

‘Or a paki more like.’

‘Get on it, Roberts, toot-sweet.’

Outside, Roberts muttered: ‘get on bloody what?’

Brant was mid-joke: ‘So I asked her, can I have the last dance. She said: “You’re having it, mate.”’

Loud guffaws from the assembled constabulary. Roberts barked: ‘Get me the current file on nutters.’

As he strode past, Brant clicked his heels and gave a crisp Hitler salute. More guffaws.

The CA Club was situated in Lower Belgravia. Vice thrives best in the centre. Ask Mark Thatcher. Inside it looked like a Heals catalogue. All soft furnishings, pastel colours. A woman approached Penny and Fiona. Dressed in what used to be optimistically called a ‘pants suit’, she was a healthy sixty. Everything had been lifted but was holding. It gave her face the immobile rictus of a death mask. She gushed:

‘My dears, welcome to Cora’s. To the CA.’

Penny handed her a card, which she discreetly put away before suggesting: ‘Drinkees?’

Fiona had an overpowering urge to shout: ‘Get real.’ Being married to a policeman did that. Penny said: ‘Pina Coladas.’

‘Oh dear, yes. Bravo.’ And she took off. Fiona said: ‘Where is everybody?’

‘Fucking.’

Cora reappeared, followed by two young men. They looked like Boyzone wannabies. Cora placed the drinks on a table with a catalogue, said:

‘Enjoy, mon cheries.’

The men stood smiling. Fiona looked at Penny, said: ‘Oh God, I hope they’re not going to sing.’

Penny was flicking through the catalogues. Page on page of guys, all nationalities and all young.

Fiona lifted her drink, said: ‘I never know, do you eat or drink these?’

Penny said to the men: ‘I’d like to book Sandy,’ then nudged Fiona: ‘C’mon girl. Pick.’

Fiona tried to concentrate. An entry looked like this:

Photo (some gorgeous hunk)

Name:

Vital Stats:

Age: (all 19/20)

Hobbies: (they all hang-glided, skied and squashed)