Ken Bruen - Vixen

Ellen knocked back the brandy, took a deep breath, asked:

‘Is that wise? I mean, until they catch Ray.’

Angie was already thinking of the money and how it was time to get out, smiled, said:

‘Ray is a punk, hasn’t the bottle to return to London; he’ll be skulking in some hole till they come and waste his shit.’

They had another few drinks and Angie explained how, if Karen was to receive a few quid, she’d readily cop to have taken the poison herself. Ellen, watching Angie as she went through this, began to feel a chill.

In her thirty years of law, she’d encountered all kinds, some of the supposedly most dangerous people in the country and she’d never felt afraid, but now, as the essence of this woman began to permeate her senses, she felt a growing fear, a downright feeling that here was the real thing. Here was the so-called evil that psychologists claimed didn’t really exist.

Angie, in her elation, had let her true self emerge, her eyes no longer guarded, and what looked out was as old as time and primeval in its malevolence. Ellen had, without realising it, moved a few feet away, a voice in her head urging her to get the hell out of there. Angie, always sensitive to danger, put out her hand, touched Ellen’s wrist, asked:

‘You okay? You don’t look too good.’

‘The brandy. I’m not used to it on an empty stomach.’

She got up, left fast and felt she had indeed supped with the devil. She’d relegate this case to a junior.

Angie went to the lock-up off Clapham Common first, failed to notice the various people following her. Inside, she packed the money into a suitcase and put her Browning automatic into her handbag. She had a passport and reckoned she was ready to roll. A fast visit to the Mews and she’d get ready to split.

She was feeling better than she ever had done, fooled ‘em all and got to stick it in their faces. The only minor flaw was Ray having the other half of the money, but maybe she’d get lucky and find some clue to its whereabouts at the Mews. Ray wasn’t the brightest and wouldn’t have exactly found a brilliant hiding place.

She got to the Mews by cab and enjoyed the cabbie trying to hit on her.

He said:

‘Honey, you look like a woman who’s got it all.’

She laughed and thought how right he was. The Mews was cold and in a mess. The cops had tossed it pretty good. She got some coffee going then added a little scotch, warm her up. She kicked off her shoes and had barely taken a sip when the key went in the door and a ginger-haired guy walked in.

She did a double take and then:

‘Ray?’

He smiled, said:

‘You got me, babe.’

She looked at her handbag, the Browning inside it. Ray caught the look, said:

‘Got a little protection in there?’

And took the. 38 out of his jacket, levelled it, said:

‘Killing Jimmy, was that necessary?’

He shot her in the stomach and heard a voice say:

‘Drop the gun, shithead.’

Two cops came out of the bedroom. One looked ill, as if he’d recently been in hospital, the other looked like a hard fuck. They both had guns pointing at him. Ray tried to bring his round and the hard ass shot him in the head.

Porter Nash said:

‘Jeez, Brant, did you have to do that?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I did.’

Angie was moaning and Porter Nash got on the phone. Brant checked Ray was dead and then moved to Angie, said:

‘I’ll bet that hurts.’

She tried to spit but the pain was too great. She managed:

‘You executed him. I’ll tell my brief.’

Brant opened the suitcase, said:

‘Tell her about the extortion money, too. She’ll be interested in that.’

The ambulance took her away, handcuffed to the gurney. Porter Nash went along and she managed to call him various obscenities. He felt tired and his chest was paining him.

Brant was in the pub, downing doubles. The shot he’d fired was still amazing him. He’d meant to hit the fuck in the knee, to enable them to find out where the rest of the money was at. As he drained his drink, he relived the moment and said:

‘Like they say, there ain’t no coming back from a head wound.’

The barman, eyeing Brant’s glass, asked:

‘Another shot?’

Brant laughed out loud, said:

‘Nope, just needed the one.’

When the excitement died down and the various cops had moved away, Falls moved from her vigil. Shit, she was cold, had been standing under the trees opposite the Mews for hours. Had trailed Angie from the lock-up, watched her enter the house, then had been confused by a red-haired guy who followed shortly after… unsure as to what to do, she’d waited until she’d heard the shots, then she’d rushed over. Through a window she’d seen Brant and Porter, on top of the situation, if two bodies classed as ‘being on top’. Then she’d waited for hours as the ambulance came and a shitpile of blue.

Her mind asking:

‘What are you waiting for?’

She didn’t know.

When it had all settled down, she finally moved and broke in through a back window. She could see the blood on the floor and the mess from the many feet that had trampled around.

A bottle of scotch was left on the table, half full. She tilted it and drank deep. There was very little to see and she decided to head home but then, a picture on the far wall caught her eye. She inspected it and recognised it as a vixen. Was it her jittery state or did the animal have some resemblance to Angie? Whatever, she took it, let it be a scold to how she’d fucked up.

Hailed a cab and got home in the hour before dawn, the cabbie saying:

‘Late to be out, ma’am.’

Ma’am! Jesus, how old was that?

Inside, she had a shower and changed into her old cotton pyjamas, the ones with the false scent of homeliness. Got another big drink going and decided to try and hang the picture but hell, it weighed a ton. She turned it over and the back was literally packed solid: how distracted had she been that she hadn’t noticed already? Got a knife and began to hack at the filling until packets of money began to tumble out. The more she hacked, the more money flowed. She began to laugh, thinking Roberts had suspended her without pay… she flung wedges of money in the air, shouting:

‘Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.’

A week later, PC McDonald was home, lying on the sofa, sunk in deep depression, thinking: If I could only get away, I could maybe get some perspective. The post came and among the bills was a padded envelope. He opened it without interest and to his disbelief, saw thick piles of money. A single sheet of paper contained the typed sentence:

‘You’re a fox.’

He got the telephone directory, began to look up travel agencies.

In Holloway prison, Beth, a prisoner recently blinded by bad home-made hooch, was trying to roll a cigarette. A voice said:

‘Let me get that for you?’

She did.

Then the cig was put between her lips and the voice asked:

‘So, you got any more perfect crimes?’