Ken Bruen: Calibre

‘A suit like my mate’s, one of the perks of the job.’

A long, dizzy conversation focused on the merits of said suit and Roberts resolved to burn the bloody thing. When the women excused themselves to go to the ladies, Brant said:

‘You’re in for a ride there, sir.’

Roberts, determined to score some point in the evening, asked:

And what if I don’t want-as you so delicately term it-the “ride”?’

Brant was middrink, putting away double Jameson’s like a good ‘un, paused, seemed puzzled, then:

‘You’ll have to, just to prove a point.’

‘Point? What bloody point?’

‘To prove you’re not gay’

‘What the hell are you saying?’

Brant seemed genuinely confused, said:

‘I told them you were gay, and they said you’d have to be to get away with such an outrageous suit.’

Roberts was reeling. There were so many reasons to wallop Brant he didn’t know where to begin, so he weakly croaked:

‘Why on earth would you tell them I’m gay?’

‘Tactics, sir. See, women love a challenge, you owe me, pal.’

The women returned, more booze and then a late-night dancing club.

Dancing.

Yeah, Roberts attempting to revive the dying art of jiving, Brant at the edge of the dance floor, a sardonic smile in place and his hand up the woman’s dress, almost as an afterthought. Then Soho for dawn kebabs, which is the very worst idea on a feast of booze but seemed mandatory. Later, Roberts would recall hot, sweaty sex and veritable gymnastics from himself. When he surfaced the next day, around two, the very first thing he saw was his crumpled suit looking like elephants had stampeded it, and in the lapel a shining beacon, the bloody kookaburra, and he was definitely laughing. Roberts had bought a tiny maisonette on the Kennington Park Road, with a minute garden at the rear. Dying from his hangover, he’d dragged himself there and set fire to the suit, it burned fiercely as if it didn’t wish to go lightly into the good day. The pin, alas, refused to catch fire.

Falls was off the school detail, as McDonald had predicted. Because they did well, they were quickly transferred. McDonald was shunted to traffic, and Falls was behind a desk doing paperwork. Stuck in a tiny cubbyhole in the basement, her job was to sift through old cases, see if there was anything needed updating.

A nothing task.

Even if she found a case that might benefit from review, there wasn’t a hope in hell that it would get attention. The squad was up to its neck in current stuff, so an old file wasn’t going to be considered. Everyone knew she’d been banished. Her only hope was to bide her time and see if a chance came down the pike. She gritted her teeth, half missed the schools.

WPC Andrews was relatively new, had been under Falls’s wing for a time, and then done well. Brant had given her a turn, as he did all the new women, then dropped her. She was now on foot patrol in Clapham. She’d reported for work and heard about Falls in the dungeon, as the basement was known.

She got a tea and a slice of Danish from the canteen, headed down there. Met Brant, who asked:

‘What, you’re a waitress now?’

She wanted to roar:

‘Why didn’t you call me like you promised?’

But knowing he had lost whatever interest he’d had, said:

‘It’s for Falls.’

He smirked, said:

‘She’s a loser. You don’t want to hang with her, get tainted with failure.’

She had to fight the urge to toss the tea in his smug face, tried to rally, said:

‘She’s my friend.’

He gave a short, nasty laugh, went:

‘Falls doesn’t have any friends. You want to get ahead, get shot of her.’

Then he moved on, whistling the theme from The Sopranos and doing a surprisingly fine rendition. In the basement she approached Falls, who was near hidden behind a mountain of files, said:

‘Hiya.’

Put the tea and Danish on the desk like a peace offering. Falls stared at the pastry like it was a bomb, said:

You think I can eat that?’

When Andrews didn’t answer, Falls looked at her. Only a woman would see that beneath the make-up was a bruise under her left eye. She asked:

‘What’s the deal on the eye?’

Andrews involuntarily reached her hand to it, then said:

‘McDonald took me for a drink.’

Falls waited and when Andrews said nothing more, she asked:

‘What, he bought you a drink then slugged you, that it?’

Andrews wanted to cry and thought, Wouldn’t that be just bloody dandy. Two female cops in the basement, weeping. Like a very bad episode of Cagney and Lacey She said.

‘He didn’t mean it, but he’s under a lot of pressure.’

Falls had heard this a thousand times. The ones who didn’t mean it were the most lethal, usually the killers. She’d been to the Rape Crisis Centre where such stories were the currency. She sighed, asked:

‘Are you going to see him again?’

Andrews was tempted to lie, but if she did and Falls found out… so she said:

‘He wants to take me out on Friday, make it up to me.’

‘Yeah, this time he’ll do it right, put you in the hospital.’

Andrews protested, said:

‘No, he’s promised and it only happened because he was shot. Normally he’s a fun guy’

Falls let it go, asked:

‘Was there anything else? The work I’m doing is vital to the safety of London.’

Andrews looked at Falls’s face, the bitterness appalled her and she thought that maybe she should have listened to Brant. She began to move away, said:

‘Well, if you need anything?’

Falls said:

‘Need? What could I possibly need? My cup overfloweth.’

It was late in the evening, Brant was standing outside the station, dragging deep on a cig. Falls approached, asked:

‘Sarge, got a minute?’

He looked at his watch, she noticed it was a Rolex and probably not a fake, he said:

‘59 seconds and counting.’

She had considered many different ways of couching her request but decided to go the direct route, said:

‘I need a knuckle-duster.’

He was delighted, gave her his full attention, said:

‘Gee, aren’t they illegal?’

She knew she’d have to dance, so tried:

‘I’ll owe you, of course.’

He flicked the cig high in the air, watched the lit curve, then said:

‘Course you’ll owe me, you already do.’

And he strode off without another word. She didn’t know if that meant okay or go fuck yourself or what. The constant dilemma with Brant, never knowing how he’d jump, the only certainty was he’d use the information to his own advantage.

Lunchtime the following day she’d returned to her desk in the basement after a lame lunch in the canteen, a low-fat yoghurt and black tea. Sitting on her desk was a McDonald’s burger box. She thought, Andrews. Would it be a Big Mac or a cheeseburger, and more to the point, would she be able to resist it? She’d have to have a word with the woman, tell her to stop laying temptation in her path. Sitting down, she flicked open the tab and there, sitting on a burger bun, a fresh lettuce leaf adorning it, was a well-used knuckleduster. The irony of the brand-name on the box and the object inside made her smile for the first time in ages. She marvelled anew at the amount of insight Brant had; He knew stuff before you did yourself. She slipped the weapon into her bag.