Ken Bruen - Vixen

Brown shouted:

‘What the hell are you wearing?’

Brant said:

‘We had a lead, sir, and the Chief Inspector felt a disguise was called for.’

The Super glared, snapped:

‘Did I ask you, Sergeant?’

Roberts, going with the flow, said:

‘We thought we had them but it turned out to be a drug thing.’

Brown, not believing a word, said:

‘And… the disguise? You couldn’t bear to part with it… is that it?’

‘No time, sir. As soon as we heard about the explosion, we rushed over.’

Brant enjoying the nonsense, asked:

‘How is Porter Nash?’

It seemed to take Brown a physical act of will to dredge up who that was, then:

‘How the bloody hell would I know? Nobody tells me anything.’

PC McDonald, on the outs for a long time, tried to gain some brownies, said:

‘WPC Falls is with him.’

The Super rounded on him.

‘That’s supposed to be some sort of reassurance, is it? A nigger visiting a pooftah. Christ, the Force is gone down the shitter.’

The Tabloid’s chief crime guy was called Dunphy. He’d recently shone in a serial cop-killing saga. He was home sick with a strep throat. His sidekick, named Malone, was filling in. When Roberts and Brant had arrived, he’d switched on his DAT-recorder. He knew those guys were always gold, he couldn’t believe his luck. Moving back slowly, he slipped away, got out his cellphone. Thought: Dunphy, you prick, you are history. This story would make his career, he could already envisage the headline:

TOP COP CALLS UNDERLINGS NIGGER AND POOFTAH.

Un-fucking-believable.

Roberts strode over to the left luggage office. The Super asked:

‘Where are you going?’

‘Checking on the ransom.’

The assembled cops looked at each other. Brown allowed himself a low chuckle, asked:

‘You think we didn’t already consider that. McDonald says the bag is still there.’

Brant creased his eyes, asked:

‘Did he open it?’

A groan spread through the cops and a chorus of:

‘What’s…?’

Brant, enunciating each word as if he were chewing on them, asked:

‘The bag… did he open it?’

A mad scramble to the luggage office.

Bill, the attendant, still suffering from Friday’s hangover and the after-effects of the bomb blast, shouted:

‘Hey, take it easy.’

As Bill was trampled by cops, Brown tore open the bag. They could see it was empty. He pointed at Bill, ordered:

‘Arrest him!’

Bill’s arrest was a sensation. Reporters, TV crews besieged the police station. Roberts tried to reason with Brown, said:

‘It’s not him.’

The Super, flush with pride, relief and a mad belief that the nightmare was over, allowed himself a supercilious smile, answered:

‘Oh, it’s him all right. When you’ve been in this game as long as me, laddie, you just know.’

Brant, behind Roberts, was more than happy to have Brown expose himself as a horse’s ass. It might even result in them getting shot of the bastard. Not even the Masonic Lodge would save him. But Brant didn’t want Roberts to go down with the fuck, tried to pull him away. Roberts, his hangover resurfacing, was livid, said:

‘Sir, with all due respect, this is balls. We’re going to appear extremely foolish.’

Before, Brown would have slapped down his Chief Inspector for the tone of impertinence. But drunk with success, he turned to the other officers, his hands, palms outwards in the mode of ‘Lord, grant me patience’, said:

‘Did you hear that, men? Our Chief Inspector believes we’re going to look foolish. I ask you, man to man, can a policeman dressed in a white pimp tracksuit truly appreciate the term “foolish”?’

It got the required jeers, guffaws, derision. Though the officers liked Roberts and were afraid of Brant, they went with the Higher Authority. Brown was elated; he couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt camaraderie with the troops. He said:

‘Drinks on me, lads.’

Big hurrahs and cheers of ‘For he’s a jolly good super’.

Roberts was left with Brant.

He wanted to shout after Brown:

‘You ignorant prick.’

Brant, his body relaxed, got his cigs out, fired up, said:

‘Let’s have a look at the other employee.’

‘What?’

‘The other guy in the left luggage office, I see he didn’t show up for work. What do you say we pay him a visit?’

Roberts gave a large grin.

It took a time for Roberts and Brant to get the address for Jimmy Cross. They put his name in the computer and Brant said:

‘Bingo.’

Jimmy’s previous was burglary, petty theft and a little light mugging. He’d done time with his brother, Ray. Roberts made a note of where Ray lived, turned to Brant and summarised:

‘Jimmy hasn’t been too long in the luggage biz and only recently moved to the bedsit in Kennington. Seems he’s not the brightest tool in the box.’

Brant continued to read the files, added:

‘Now, Ray, he’s a whole different deal. We’re talking career criminal and he seems to be a wide boy. Jimmy follows the lead set by Ray.’

Roberts got some tea, handed a cup to Brant who asked:

‘What, no Club Milks?’

‘Don’t you have a hangover?’

Brant drank the tea noisily, lit a cig, said:

‘Hangover? Naw, I take precautions. Jeez, I could murder a Club Milk. What you do is get a wedge of that chocolate, pop it in your mouth, slurp in the tea, sugared of course, then add the layer of nicotine.’

Roberts wanted to know how to prevent a hangover. Who doesn’t? But he was so taken with Brant’s description of how to enjoy a Club Milk, he let it slide. He could only hope Brant was kidding. Yet, in their years together, he’d seen him pour scotch on curry, add milk to Baileys and once, memorably, coat chips with brown and red sauce together.

Go figure.

He shuddered, put it from his mind and asked:

‘You think we should tool up?’

Brant, never usually averse to weapons, shook his head.

‘Not Jimmy. Let’s see him then we can decide if we need hardware for the brother.’

They went to get a vehicle from the car-pool.

When they saw it, Roberts sighed, asked:

‘Why is it always a bloody Volvo?’

Brant, getting behind the wheel, answered:

‘Could be worse, McDonald could be driving us.’

The said PC McDonald had been watching them, eavesdropping on their talk, heard them agree to visit Jimmy. When they’d gone, he booted up the computer, downloaded the file and decided he’d go after Ray.

The first shot took McDonald high in the shoulder. The second, a head shot, knocked him down. Ray Cross thought he’d killed him, hesitated, then stepped over the copper and ran for all he was worth. He couldn’t believe they were on to him so fast. The past 24 hours had been among the most shocking of his erratic life: having the money, successfully planting bombs, he should have been over the moon. Instead he was on the dark side of it.

It had begun with him acting purely on instinct, playing a hunch. Jimmy was heavy on his mind and it was the first time Jimmy had been on his own. In the flat by himself, he was bound to panic. So, despite the resolution to stay apart until the storm had passed, Ray went on over.