Ken Bruen - Vixen

Brant drove like a demented person, lethal turns and cutting off black cabs at every opportunity. Porter lit a cig and Brant said:

‘Hey, aren’t you supposed to be off those?’

‘When this case is done, then I’m done.’

They pulled up at a quiet house and saw the windows were all lit up.

Brant said:

‘They’re home.’

He ran through what he’d learned from the snitch: that Angie had been running with Ray Cross, that Ray was in Brighton. Brant was hoping for an address on him soon. Porter digested the data then asked:

‘You think she’s involved?’

‘Let’s go find out.’

Angie opened the door, asked:

‘Yes?’

They showed the warrant cards and she invited them in. Walking ahead of them, Brant took a good look at her and thought she had the moves. In the sitting room, she asked if she could perhaps get them some refreshment. They declined and she motioned them to sit. They did.

Angie was dressed like a secretary: a very low-key secretary at that. A beige suit, with a simple white blouse and low heels, a single strand of pearls around her neck. The boys weren’t buying this.

The look in her eyes said:

‘You believe this shit?’

They didn’t.

Brant began, his notebook on his lap, as if he had to consult it. He asked:

‘You were the girlfriend of Ray Cross?’

She ran her tongue along her bottom lip, feigning nervousness, answered:

‘Yes, but I had to flee.’

In unison they went:

‘Flee?’

Brant enjoyed the image. The idea of this babe fleeing anyone or anything just didn’t gel. She folded her hands on her knees, a demure gesture and Porter thought she was close to wringing her hands.

She said:

‘I was afraid of him. He had a gun and I began to suspect he was involved in dangerous activities.’

Porter felt he should join in, asked:

‘And you didn’t think to contact the police?’

Now the hand-wringing, with:

‘Oh, he’d have found out and I don’t know what he might have done.’

Brant lit a cig, then asked:

‘Mind?’

‘May I have one?’

He offered the pack and she took it delicately, shook one loose, waited for him to move. He reached over and fired her up.

Porter watched as she let her fingers touch Brant’s, ever so fleetingly.

Brant blew out the smoke, asked:

‘And the brother, Jimmy, how’d you get on with him?’

A few tears slid down her cheeks and neither offered a hankie. She sniffed, then:

‘Oh, Jimmy was too good for this world. He was an innocent, I can’t believe he’s dead.’

Porter had been impressed with the horn-rimmed glasses she’d been wearing. She removed them now to dry her eyes. Before he could comment, they heard a moan from the bedroom, Angie tried to smile, said:

‘My flatmate, she’d come down with some bug.’

Brant stood, asked:

‘Mind if I see how she’s doing?’

Angie, alarmed, stood, said:

‘There’s no need, she’ll be fine, you’ll only disturb her.’

Brant exchanged a look with Porter who nodded and Brant said:

‘Lady, it’s what I do best: disturb people.’

He marched into the bedroom and Angie began to wring her hands in earnest.

Rachel, in a tangle of sheets, was sweating like a horse, vomit on the floor. Brant bent down, asked:

‘Karen?’

She managed a smile, asked:

‘Brant?’

‘Yeah, it’s me darlin’, what’s going on with you?’

She explained the twisted feeling in her gut, how she’d apparently recover and then be sick all over again, that she couldn’t get the smell of almonds out of her nostrils. Brant rubbed her forehead, asked:

‘And Angie, lemme guess, she’s been doing the meals?’

Karen struggled to sit up and croaked, said:

‘Yes, she insists I eat that shite, that muesli every morning.’

Brant, who’d been poisoned himself by a Spanish psycho, said:

‘We’re going to get you to the hospital. You’ll be fine.’

He came out, using his cellphone, saying:

‘Going to need an ambulance in jig time. Yeah, suspected poisoning and send a scene-of-crime team; we’re going to turn this place over.’

He looked at Porter, said:

‘Miss Prim here has been feeding arsenic or cyanide to her flatmate. I can never remember which one smells like almonds.’

He levelled his gaze at Angie, said:

‘You’re fucked, babe.’

Porter stood and moved right in front of her, asked:

‘The night Jimmy had his accident, where were you, sweetheart?’

Angie, smiling again, took another of Brant’s cigs, said:

‘You’re going to love this.’

In unison they answered:

‘Doubt it.’

Angie crossed her legs, letting them see lots of thigh, drew deep on the cig, said:

‘I was with a cop.’

Took them by surprise and they said nothing. She was enjoying this, gauged their reactions to her leg display and figured the polite guy was a fag but the other, he’d ride a camel. So she directed her comments at him, said:

‘I was with a cop in the biblical sense, you get my drift?’

They felt the initiative slipping away and Brant said:

‘Who was he?’

He was thinking, Fuck this, I’ll kill the asshole but tried to act like this wasn’t a big deal.

Angie was daring him now and asked:

‘What makes you think it was a he?’

Porter, before he could think spluttered:

‘What the hell does that mean?’

Now she turned those eyes on him, said:

‘I’d have thought you’d be sympathetic to same sex gigs. It was a sharp little dame named Falls. The black meat, it’s always a little exotic, don’t you think?’

Porter shook his head and went to see the state of Karen. Angie stared at Brant, said:

‘This is no big thing. She took some shit, thought it would bring her weight down. She’s a stripper, we’re not talking rocket scientist so how about you let it slide? I’ll give you a blow job like you’ve only ever dreamed about and that’s just the beginning… What do you say, fellah, you think you’d go for that?’

Brant seemed as if he was considering it and her hopes rose, then he shrugged, said:

‘Thing is, honey, I don’t do dykes.’

Ray brought his train ticket, the gun in a holdall. The ticket clerk had asked:

‘Return?’

‘Not on your bloody life.’

He settled in his seat and took out a Special Brew, feeling better already at the thought of getting back to London.

A guy in a suit, reading The Financial Times peered over the top of the paper, said:

‘Is it your intention to drink that?’

Ray gave him the look, said:

‘It’s my intention to come and sit with you, right up close, how would that be?’

The suit moved.

After a few cans, Ray was building a nice little buzz and went for a pee, locked the door and as he relieved himself, he went:

‘Ah.’

He checked his reflection and was shocked anew at the red hair, thinking, Fuck, geek city.

At Waterloo, there were lots of cops in evidence but he didn’t get more than a second glance. Found a B amp;B in Lower Marsh and paid a week in advance.

He went out that evening, the gun in the waistband of his jeans, it felt like reassurance. He headed for a stripclub in Clapham. Had a few brewskis and waited.

He was watching a girl named Donna; she couldn’t dance for shit but the punters — dazed from bad lighting, watered drinks and the seediness of the place — seemed to like her. When she took her break, he moved, joined her at her table, asked:

‘What do you say to a bottle of champers?’

She was about to say piss off but peered closely, went: