Кен Бруен - Blitz

‘Why hasn’t this... witness come forth earlier?’

‘Nobody asked him.’

‘What?’

‘Nobody spoke to him.’

With that, Brant nodded to a man standing near the kerb and he approached. If the heavy presence of police intimidated him, he wasn’t showing it. He had the air of a street person, knowing, crafty, ready. The Super inspected the witness. Obviously not impressed, he barked,

‘You say you saw the shooter?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Describe him.’

The guy gave the hint of a smile, took a moment, said,

‘Looks like him.’

He was pointing at McDonald. The Super near lost it, shouted,

‘That’s a damn policeman!’

‘He had the same hair, blond and cut tight, you know, like a nancy boy or somefink.’

‘And what were you at, hanging around on a street corner, you just happened to see the shooting?’

The man was unfazed by the Super’s shouting, said,

‘I sell The Big Issue. ’

‘What’s that supposed to tell me?’

The man pointed to the Oval tube entrance, said,

‘That’s my patch; every day, morning till night, I see what goes down.’

Now the Super turned to Brant and ordered,

‘Get him down to the station and take a full statement.’

The man didn’t move, asked,

‘What about my customers? This is one of my busiest times, the pubs will be closing soon. People have had a few, they get that guilt going.’

‘You’ll be compensated.’

‘Yeah, like I believe that.’

Brant took the guy to the pub, asked,

‘What will you have?’

‘Pint and a large brandy.’

He got a pint. They took a table at the rear; Brant said,

‘It’s Tony, right?’

‘Anthony, and you’re Brant?’

‘You know me?’

‘Fuck, who doesn’t?’

‘So, run the description by me.’

‘Aren’t you taking notes?’

And got the look.

The area was preserved at the Oval, scene of crimes had been and most of the cops had drifted away. Porter asked Falls,

‘You want to get a nightcap?’

‘No.’

‘Hang on, I’ll get the car, drop you home.’

‘I’ll walk.’

‘Come on, Falls, you can’t walk home like that.’

She rounded on him, temper flashing.

‘What’s wrong with the way I look?’

‘Jeez, nothing, but you know... a woman on her own.’

Her hand on her hips, she said,

‘I hope some asshole tries, I really do.’

McDonald was feeling better. The day had started badly; he’d arrived at the station to find a dead rat pinned to his locker. Then, in the canteen, he’d moved to join a group at a table and, to a man, they’d gotten up and left. As the day progressed, he realised nobody was talking to him. Finally he’d approached the duty sergeant who glared at him. He asked,

‘Sarge, what’s going on?’

‘Like you don’t know.’

‘Sarge, I swear, cut me a bit of slack. What did I do?’

The sergeant was a Scot, otherwise he’d have blanked McDonald. He looked round, ensured no one was listening, said,

‘You shopped the Doc.’

‘Doc... what Doc?’

‘The one you’re seeing, the shrink. You called CIB, dropped him right in it. They went over there, found him pissed as a parrot, trying to get his leg over his nurse.’

McDonald tried to get his mind in gear, said,

‘I wasn’t seeing any shrink.’

The sergeant raised his eyebrows, said,

‘Whatever, the shrink is fucked. Won’t be a consultant to the force no more. Nice little earner, I hear. The word on you is you’re a fink, a rat.’

McDonald had suddenly realised, said,

‘Brant.’

‘What?’

‘He’s behind it; he made the call, I know it.’

The sergeant leant forward, cautioned,

‘Whoa, laddie, you’re in deep enough. The last thing you need is to have Brant on your case.’

McDonald was offended, countered,

‘I’m not afraid of that bastard.’

The sergeant took a deep breath, said,

‘Everybody else is.’

‘Yeah, well.’

He felt he’d over-emphasised his case, tried to withdraw, said,

‘Anyway, I’d appreciate it if you could spread the word that I’m not a fink.’

The sergeant was shaking his head, went:

‘No three ways to Sunday, you’re fucked.’

How do I know all this? Because I’m crazy, you can always trust the information given you by people who are crazy; they have an access to truth not available through regular channels.

The call came to the main desk of The Tabloid, was re-routed to the Chief Crime Correspondent, a man named Dunphy. He picked up, said,

‘Yeah?’

‘I have information on the police killing.’

‘Let’s hear it.’

A pause, then Barry said,

‘Have some fucking manners.’

Dunphy sat up straight, recognising a tone, asked,

‘What?’

‘I’m offering information, you don’t even say hello.’

‘Hello.’

‘That’s better.’

‘I’m glad you’re happy.’

Another pause, then:

‘I’m not fond of sarcasm. Maybe I’ll start on journalists when I finish my cop quota.’

Dunphy hit the record button, eased his voice a notch, said,

‘We got off on the wrong foot, let’s start over; what did you say your name was?’

‘Jesus, what a corny ploy. I’m not sure you’re up to the task.’

‘Task?’

‘Yeah, reporting from inside the cop killings.’

‘You’re a cop?’

‘Ah, you’re too fucking dumb.’

Click.

Dunphy lit a cigarette, a light sweat on his forehead, knew he’d screwed up. He was about to listen to a replay when the phone rang, he grabbed it, said,

‘Yes?’

‘One more chance.’

‘Great.’

‘And learn some manners.’

Manners weren’t Dunphy’s strong point but he could fake it, as he did most things. He tried,

‘I appreciate your calling.’

‘Where are you on the food chain?’

Dunphy wasn’t sure what this meant, said,

‘I’m not sure what that means.’

‘Do you have any clout, are you one of the movers and shakers?’

‘Oh... I run the Crime desk.’

‘I can make you famous.’

Now he desperately wanted to let some obscenities fly; instead, he said,

‘That would be good.’

‘Which do you prefer... seven... or eight?’

He knew better than to ask ‘what’ so he went with,

‘Seven.’

‘Seven it is.’

‘May I ask, seven what?’

‘Seven more cops to kill, bye.’

Click.

Dunphy ejected the tape, headed for the editor’s office, wanted — after all these years — to shout:

‘Hold the front page!’

Barry came out of the phone kiosk, power was surging through his system, he couldn’t believe the rush, went:

‘Fucking hell.’

He’d had a journalist grovelling, actually had the guy kissing his arse and this was only the beginning. The thing to do now was to show he was serious. The gun was hidden in the waistband of his jeans, tucked against his spine. Like in the movies. Well, this was his movie and he was going to give them Acopalypse Now , not to mention Redux. A police panda car was parked at the beginning of Camberwell New Road. Just the driver. Barry paused, waited to see if there was any sign of a partner.

Nope.

The window was open, the officer listening to the radio. Barry took another look around, as is mandatory in Camberwell. If a cop car parks, everybody legs it, it’s almost the law. Barry wanted to play, said,

‘Yo’ there, policeman.’

The cop turned, gave him the full stare, asked,

‘You want somefink?’

Barry snapped back: