Ken Bruen: Calibre

Roberts was in the pub, nursing a pint of Bitter, still hurting from his night on the tiles with Brant. The door opened and Porter Nash approached, asked:

‘May I join you, sir?’

Roberts liked Porter, felt he was a fine cop and admired the way he handled his sexual orientation. Porter had been feeling extremely well, his relationship with Trevor was, not to pun too obviously, cruising, and the regular sex was positively rejuvenating. The only bad moment had been when, early in the morning, Trevor had found him with the hypo, asked, without too much shock:

‘You’re a junkie?’

‘Diabetic’

Trevor thought about it, said:

‘Bummer.’

Later, he’d asked:

‘Is it true that you have to be really careful about your feet, that if you get a cut, you could easily need amputation?’

Porter had stressed that it was rare for such a scenario to happen, but Trevor had already lost interest.

Porter now asked Roberts if he wanted a drink. He declined and Porter sat, said:

‘Can I run something by you?’

Roberts nodded so Porter began:

‘You’ll know about this “Manner’s Killer” or alleged killer. I’ve been checking on recent accidents and two last week might be termed suspicious.’

Roberts hadn’t touched his pint, seemed content to stare at it, said:

‘Tell me about them.’

‘One was a drowning in a bath, hard to say if it was an accident till we get the post-mortem to see if alcohol or drugs were present. The second was a hit and run. I interviewed work colleagues, friends, and guess what?’

Roberts had familiarized himself with the case, lest he be called in, said:

‘They weren’t exactly the most popular people on the planet.’

Porter was impressed, said:

‘Right, they were noted for their rudeness, treated the world like dirt.’

Roberts digested the information, said:

‘Sounds like you’ve got a player.’

Porter began to bite at his thumb, a habit he had managed to break, then said:

‘My big fear is another letter detailing those deaths. I’ve put the nom de plume, “Ford” in the computer and got thousands of hits but nothing usable, tried various acromyns, but zip.’

Roberts stood up, said:

‘Well, you know one thing.’

‘Do I?’

‘Sure, the guy likes to play. Did you ask Brant about the name? He’s got a way of cutting through the crap.’

Then Roberts was gone, his pint barely untouched. Porter continued to worry his thumb. He hadn’t heard from Trevor in two days and wondered if the needles had spooked him. He decided to call round after work to the bedsit where Trevor lived. Meanwhile, he hoped like hell that the Super hadn’t gotten any mail.

McDonald was in the car pool, leaning against a van they used sometimes for surveillance. Falls approached and he eyed her with distaste. She moved right up to him, and he said:

‘Hey, you’re in my personal space.’

She smiled, said:

‘Like a bit of rough, do you?’

His eyes lit and he sneered:

‘What, tired of women already?’

She looked round then pivoted, used her body weight to swing her right hand, and hit him in the left eye with the knuckle-duster. He fell back against the van and she turned, walked away, saying:

‘That rough enough for you?’

Cops like nothing better than a real shiner, a black eye in all its glory amuses them endlessly. So next day McDonald was taking a storm of stick. His story was he’d had a dispute with a motorist. No one believed it, and sure enough Brant came swaggering along, looked at him, said:

‘Motorists carrying knuckle-dusters, eh.’

Which told McDonald where Falls had got the weapon, but of course he couldn’t say anything. Just add Brant yet again to his ultimate hit list. Then the Super summoned him and on hearing the motorist yarn asked:

‘And you arrested him?’

‘Mmm… In the confusion, he slipped away’

Brown glared, went:

‘Forgetting something, are we, Constable?’

‘I didn’t get the registration, as I said…’

Brown shouted:

‘Sir, I didn’t hear you say “sir” when you addressed me. Now I have to wonder if you’re really cut out for this line of work. You seem to be exceedingly accident prone, not a good trait for a policeman.’

McDonald wanted to protest, say how he’d yet again been the innocent victim, but before he could even start to whine, the Super said:

‘Get out of my sight, have a look at the security ads, I hear they’ll hire any one.’

The desk sergeant assigned him to the snarl of traffic on Balham High Road which, if not the highway to hell, was definitely the Road to Perdition. As McDonald slumped off, the sergeant roared:

‘And if someone wallops you, call the cops.’

Brant was having a pint of Guinness, a ham sandwich curling alongside. The door opened and Falls came in, asked:

‘Can I sit?’

‘Sure, but can you fetch?’

She sat. Brant indicated the sandwich, asked:

‘Hungry?’

‘Actually I brought you something.’

Produced a McDonald’s box, set it carefully before him. He smiled, took a huge swipe of his pint, it left him with a cream moustache, opened the box. A cheeseburger. He lifted the bun, nothing underneath, and he asked:

‘Something missing?’

She gave him the look, asked:

‘You wanted fries?’

He grabbed the burger, took an experimental bite, chewed noisily, said:

‘Not bad.’

The barman came over, went:

‘Hoy, you can’t bring food in here.’

Brant, midbite, said:

‘Piss off, oh, and bring a large vodka for this young fox.’

The barman was newish and not familiar with Brant, but something in the way he spoke told him to leave it be.

He did.

Brant levelled his gaze on Falls and she thought, despite how she didn’t want to think, He’s attractive in a mad dog fashion. Like a line of cocaine that is going to fuck you good, but the rush. He said:

‘McDonald had himself a traffic accident.’

She tread carefully, answered:

‘So I heard.’

Brant fingered his Zippo, got a cig out, flicked a light, drew deep, said:

‘Watch your back.’

She didn’t have a reply so said nothing. He shouted at the bar:

‘Yo, boy, let’s get some action here before Tuesday’

Then back to her, went:

You want to pay your chit?’

She was surprised it was so soon, usually Brant gave you, if not a time of grace, then a time to stew. She nodded and he gave the wolverine smile, said:

‘That’s a girl, best not to be in bondage. So you can be a cunt, am I right?’

The barman was placing the drinks before them as Brant uttered the obscenity and physically recoiled as if he’d been slapped but said nothing, moved away fast. Falls took a deep breath, went:

‘What did you say?’

‘Here’s the deal. For the next week or so, outside the station, I want you to behave like a total animal, treat people like dirt, insult them at every opportunity, be as bad-mannered as you can imagine, act like you’re PMT. Think you can do that?’

She reached for her drink, took it neat without a mixer, needed to taste the bitter wallop of raw alcohol.

She felt it.

Brant had sat back, downed his fresh pint in nearly one swallow, belched, said:

‘Ah.’

Falls had a moment of clarity, then a gallop of rage, and nearly spat:

‘It’s the Manners case, right? You want me to smoke him out?’