Ken Bruen: Ammunition

Close!

That would be stretching it. They had history, lots of it, primarily bad, but they were connected, Brant continually managed to amaze Roberts, the risks he took, his whole attitude to the world fascinated and appalled Roberts. The chief inspector stared at Andrews, her fresh face, the whole gung ho spirit, he wanted to tell her he wasn’t surprised Brant had been shot, simply dismayed it had taken so long. You danced on the edge like Brant did, they were going to get you, and that was just the good guys.

He asked:

‘I’m on my way over to the hospital. You want a lift?’

She was delighted. They could share and bond, form a special relationship born of grief and empathy, and he wasn’t unattractive, plus, it would add to her cred, heighten her profile.

They were on their way out when Foley, the desk sergeant, called Roberts, who snapped:

‘Not now, for heaven’s sake, Brant has been shot.’

Foley wanted to protest:

‘Hey, don’t bite my bloody head off. You think I don’t hurt, don’t I bleed too, am I not human?’

He’d recently seen The Elephant Man and had been profoundly affected. There was other whiny stuff he wanted to say but felt it wouldn’t fly, he’d keep it for his wife and, who knew, he might even get another of them pity shags. Instead, he adopted his officious tone, let the bastard know he knew what was important, said:

‘I wouldn’t, of course, have bothered you, sir, at such a moment… ’

Paused.

Let the hard leak all over the words, then:

‘But the caller said he had information on the shooting.’

Roberts looked like he might hit him, and the sergeant backed off a little. Roberts barked:

‘There isn’t anyone else in the whole station to take the call? Every nutter in South-East London is going to be on the blower claiming he did it. Surely you’re capable of taking a message your own self, you’ve been sat on yer arse long enough to know.’

The slur of being a desk jockey was not lost, and the sergeant let that hang for a moment then said, in an icy voice:

‘Yes sir, and I wouldn’t have bothered you in your moment of tremendous urgency, but the caller did specify you by name and my years of sitting on my… rear… tell me he’s genuine.’

He was well pleased with this, felt it said:

‘Fuck you, Jack, and proper.’

Roberts sighed, brushed past the sergeant, grabbed the phone, spat:

‘This is Roberts.’

Heard:

‘So terribly loath to bother you at a time of obviously deep distress and trauma.’

The voice was rich, cultured, what used to be called a BBC accent, not to mention extremely posh. It immediately got up Roberts’s nose. He demanded:

‘You have information on a shooting?’

His impatience, testiness, was palpable and answered by a full chuckle, it wasn’t laughter, no, it was the sound of someone who was delighted at the response. He mimicked Roberts:

‘ “ A shooting.” You jest, my good fellow. Surely it’s the shooting, or am I overrating the value of our esteemed Detective Sergeant Brant?’

Roberts was gripping the receiver so hard it hurt the palm of his hand. He tried to loosen up in every sense, asked:

‘You have information, is that right?’

Again, the chuckle, a real fun guy, then:

‘Well, old bean, it’s not a social call, pleasurable as that would no doubt be, this is indeed a call with information. Might there be a financial incentive for me to, as they say, “spill the beans.”’

Roberts was signalling for the desk sergeant to get a trace on the call. The sergeant ignored him, elected not to know what Roberts meant with his furious hand gestures. See how he liked to be fucked with.

Roberts said into the phone:

‘Any citizen helping the police will be entitled to the full gratitude of the Met?’

Even Roberts knew this sounded like a crock, and the guy said:

‘Tut tut, Chief Inspector, the party line, what? I’ll expect a more enlightened approach when next I call.’

Roberts nigh panicked, rushed:

‘What’s the information? How do I know you’re not just some nut case?’

Silence and Roberts thought the guy was gone, then:

‘You’ll discover the weapon was a Browning Automatic, the full clip was… employed… and my deepest apologies for the somewhat… how shall we say, scatter-gun theatrics, but good help is so hard to find, I’m sure you have similar difficulties with staff. If a next time is required, I shall try to ensure a little more finesse.’

Roberts realised he was sweating, tried:

‘ “Next time.” What the hell does that mean?’

There was a burst of static on the line, then the guy said:

‘if perchance our beloved Sergeant Brant hasn’t cashed in his chips, then we shall have to try again, persistence being the quality we can all aspire to. For now, tootle-pip.’

Roberts wanted to scream, ’ tootle-pip ’? Who the fuck talked like that outside of the pages of a P. G. Wodehouse novel. He gasped:

‘But why, why Sergeant Brant?’

A full baritone laugh, then:

‘Your attempts to keep me on the line are admirable if a tad amateurish, but as to why, really, Chief Inspector, can you honestly think of anyone who doesn’t want to shoot the said misfortunate?’

Click.

The bastard was gone.

Roberts whirled round to the desk jockey, shouted:

‘Did you trace him?’

The sergeant asked:

‘Oh, did you want a trace?’

Roberts nearly went over the desk, reined it in a bit, said:

‘That’s what my bloody hand signals were for, you moron.’

The sergeant, not missing a beat, said:

‘Ah, I thought you were asking for tea? Speaking of which, shall I order you up a nice cuppa, you seem a touch overwrought?’

Roberts spun on his heel, snapped at Andrews:

‘What are you standing around for, bring the damn car.’

Andrews felt it was a bit ripe to take it out on her, but kept her thoughts to herself.

Roberts comforted himself with the thought that all calls into the station were recorded as a matter of course and maybe they’d get something off those. He ordered the desk guy to have the tapes in his office… pronto.

The desk sergeant muttered:

’Seig Heil.’

Falls was between exhilaration and depression. One moment she wanted to scream in triumph, then was plunged into the depths. Her third attempt, she’d passed the sergeants’ exam.

Well, cheated on the sergeants’ exam.

Brant had gotten the papers for her, and she’d made the requisite protest when he’d offered to get them. She’d said:

‘Oh, I can’t do that.’

Brant had given his wolf smile, said:

‘Fine, but you’ll fail again and guess what, babe, there ain’t going to be a fourth try.’

That she had to agree was true on both counts, she said:

‘I’ve been studying, really trying.’

Brant laughed out loud, said:

‘Bollocks. You’re black, they already have their quota of minorities in place and you, you’ve got some very… colourful… form.’

No argument there, she’d more screwups than Liza Minnelli, so she had to ask:

‘And what will it cost me?’

You did business with Brant, it always cost, a lot, and if it was only money but no, something you had to compromise yourself with. He said:

‘I’ll think of something.’

She asked:

‘How will you get the papers?’

He laughed out loud, then:

‘Do you really want to know?’

She didn’t, and he said:

‘Thought so.’

Then he added:

‘Sergeant.’

And here it was, the official confirmation of it. All those years of slogging away and now she was Sergeant Falls. Years ago, she’d been the wet dream of the nick, all the coppers had the hots for her, and her blackness only added to her appeal. But the job, the job had turned her into a female Brant almost, and the appreciation of her went down the toilet. And the new bitch, Andrews, she was the current prize. Falls had fallen prey to coke, booze, and she knew they suspected she’d had some involvement in the death of a notorious cop killer. She’d managed to block that whole episode out of her head.