Ammunition (10 page)

Porter shook his head, walked away.

He wasn’t sure but the guy might have shouted:

‘Arse bandit.’

Brant was resplendent in a new suit, a very expensive one, blue shirt, and the police federation tie, heavy brogue shoes, hand-made, you could tell from the stitching, but his face looked waxen, he was chatting to a nurse, scoring heavily from the look on her face. He turned to Porter, said:

‘This is Mary, an Irish girl, gave me a sponge bath.’

Is there an answer to this, any reply that doesn’t sound bitter? Porter asked:

‘You good to go?’

Brant stood up, and Mary said:

‘I’ll get the wheelchair.’

Brant looked at Porter, said:

‘Regulations. They have to wheel you off the premises.’

He lowered himself into the chair and when Mary went to push it, he waved her off, said:

‘My officer will do it, he’s built for speed.’

A not so funny joke between them. Brant had persuaded an agent to buy a book from him, the problem being, he hadn’t written anything, had lured Porter to his home, spiked his coffee with speed, and jotted down Porter’s war stories. The book titled
Calibre
was due for publication soon. When Porter had finally confronted Brant about literally stealing his material, Brant had shrugged:

‘It’s a novel, who gives a fuck.’

Porter still hadn’t quite decided what he was going to do about it. He knew from bitter experience, you never won against Brant, one way or another, he’d fuck you over and sometimes, it was simply best to just bend over.

He wheeled Brant slowly till Brant snapped:

‘The fuck is the matter with you, mate, push the frigging thing, stop behaving like an old woman.’

Porter debated just letting go, see what would happen, maybe the No 9 bus was due and would do them all a favour.

He finally got Brant in the car and put the vehicle in gear, burned rubber out of there.

First thing, Brant lit a cigarette, despite the decals all over the dash, commanding no
SMOKING, PLEASE
!

Brant said:

‘I hear you saved my life.’

Porter was stunned, of all the things he expected from the sergeant, this had never entered his radar, he shrugged, said:

‘More reflex than anything else.’

If he was expecting gratitude, it wasn’t coming. Brant asked:

‘You figure I owe you now?’

There was a real granite edge to his words, that Mick attitude spilling all over his intonation. Porter said:

‘The Chinese believe if you save a person, you’re responsible for them from then on.’

He knew it sounded like a crock.

Brant stubbed his cig out on the carpet of the car, Porter nearly hit him and Brant said:

‘I don’t like to owe anybody, you hear me?’

Porter felt he finally, in all their tangled relationship, gotten a slight upper hand but he’d have to tread real carefully. Brant would bite at the very moment you least expected. He said:

‘I might be on to the guy who ordered the hit.’

Then he ran through the names he’d jotted down, Brant listened with total concentration.

A focused Brant was a very dangerous animal.

He said:

‘Swing the car round.’

Porter, surprised, went:

‘What?’

‘You deaf, turn the fucking thing around, let’s go see the Clapham Rapist’s brother, Rodney, is it?’

Porter swung round, a U-turn in the middle of heavy traffic, followed by howls of car horns. Brant put out his middle finger to all. Porter asked:

‘Shouldn’t we get some more evidence before we confront him?’

Brant snorted:

‘Fuck that, I’ll know if he’s the cunt.’

Thesheer vehemence of his words and the obscenity Porter loathed made him swerve dangerously but he reined in, pulled the car back on track, said:

‘He lives in Mayfair.’

Brant was shaking his head, said:

‘No good, let’s go to his office, do the whole cop heavy deal, let his colleagues see who he is.’

Porter was very uneasy, intimidation, though he used it, never sat easily, and he tried:

‘But what if he’s innocent?’

Brant laughed, an ugly cackle, said:

‘Then he’s nothing to worry about, has he?’

Porter was nearing the city, the smell of money in the air, the bombings had dented the traders… sure… but not for long… money recovers faster than anything else on the planet.

Ask Donald Trump.

Brant leaned over, turned on the radio, and, of course, didn’t ask:

‘You kidding?’

The song playing was ‘First Cut Is the Deepest’ and to Porter’s amazement, Brant listened intently, and… looked like he was suffering, then he snapped the radio off, asked:

‘Know who wrote that song?’

Without hesitation, Porter said:

‘Rod Stewart?’

Brant was delighted, said:

‘Everybody thinks that. Bet you twenty quid it wasn’t.’

Porter was so relieved to see him come out of the suffering mode that he agreed to the wager and asked:

‘So, who do you think wrote it?’

Brant was lighting another cig and Porter would have sold his soul for a drag, Brant exhaled, said:

‘I don’t think, I
know
who did.’

Porter found a space near Rodney Lewis’s office, prodded:

‘Yeah, so is it like a secret or do we have a bet?’

Brant laughed, said:

‘Fucking money from a baby, money for old rope… it was Cat Stevens.’

Porter felt he already had the twenty in his wallet…
Cat Stevens
… yeah, right.

Friends say I’m putting a brave face on it—Bollocks—This is far and away the most stimulating, fascinating thing that’s ever happened to me.

—Jonathan King, songwriter, impresario, DJ,… jailed for buggery

THE BUILDING HOUSING Rodney Lewis’s office was impressive in that English mode. Let you know in an understated fashion that
here be mega bucks
and managed to convey that, unless you had lots of cash, you were way off track. Lewis’s office was spacious, bright, with a severe secretary sitting behind an impressive desk. Porter had asked a few moments before:

‘How’d you want to play this?’

Brant, not breaking stride, asked:

‘Play what? Talk right for fuck’s sake.’

Porter explained did they want to do the tried and familiar route of good cop/bad cop?

Brant said:

‘Only if I get to play the good cop, I’m tired of always being the hard arse.’

Porter wanted to shout:

‘How do you think we feel?’

He said:

‘Okay, make a nice change.’

The secretary was not pleased to see them, Porter asked if they might have a word with Mr Rodney Lewis? Her expression said that pigs might fly, she snapped:

‘Do you have an appointment? Mr Lewis is a very busy man.’

Porter was gearing up to be the hard arse when Brant said:

‘Tell him the cops are here, in connection with his shooting of a policeman.’

She was stunned and Porter stared, mouth open at Brant, Brant said to him:

‘Close your mouth, you look like a half-wit.’

The secretary went to the back of the office, disappeared behind an oak door, Brant said:

‘Probably grabbing a smoke.’

Porter was furious, accused:

‘What happened to our deal?’

Brant was pocketing some pens from the secretary’s desk, said:

‘You think that was bad? Man, that’s me real mellow side.’

The secretary was back, said:

‘Mr Lewis will see you now, he’s the last door on the right.’

Brant winked at her and they headed for the office. Porter was about to knock, but Brant just opened the door, strode in.

Rodney Lewis had one of those ear things that lets you talk on the mobile, hands free, he was in his late forties, dressed in pinstripe, with a full head of coiffed grey hair. He was carrying plenty of weight, the kind that came from good food, and
he had sharp dark eyes that watched them with a vague disinterest. What he mostly conveyed was confidence and money, oodles of both. A slight smile played on his lower lip, he asked:

‘Gentlemen, to what do I owe the pleasure of the visit?’

Porter couldn’t swear but he sure sounded like the guy on the tape, the rich, posh accent, with arrogance riding point. Brant slumped into a chair, on Lewis’s right, Porter stayed standing. Brant asked:

‘Why’d you shoot me?’

Lewis sat stock still for a moment, then recovered, reached for his phone, said directly to Porter:

‘I think we better get my lawyer in on this.’

Porter looked at Brant, who, naturally, was lighting a cig, then he said:

‘There’s no need, sir. We were just wondering if you could perhaps help us with the shooting of a police officer?’

Lewis watched Brant for a minute, then said:

‘Of course, Sergeant Brant, who was involved in the death of my brother, and you think what? That this was my revenge?’

Brant continued to say nothing, just smoked like his life depended on it, Porter tried:

‘You can appreciate, sir, that we have to look at everybody who might harbour a grudge towards the sergeant.’

Lewis began to punch numbers into the phone and Porter said:

‘Well, thank you for your time, sir, we’ll be off now, and sorry for the inconvenience.’

Porter didn’t know what Brant might do, but to his surprise and considerable relief, Brant stood up, leaned over the desk, and dropped his cig in Lewis’s cup of coffee. Then they were at the door and Porter realized he was sweating, Brant turned back, asked:

‘How come a fuck like you, you got all this money, you can’t find somebody to shoot straight?’

Lewis locked eyes with Brant, said:

‘I hope you enjoyed your little game, Sergeant. By tomorrow, I’ll have your warrant card. Your days of aggression are over.’

Brant seemed like he might move back towards Lewis and Porter was ready to prevent that, Brant said:

‘Your brother, the rapist, he was a piece of shit, but you, you’re something even worse.’

When they were outside the building, Porter launched:

‘The fuck is the matter with you? I thought we’d agreed on the good cop routine for you?’

Brant moved towards their car, said:

‘That
was
my good cop. If I’d been the other, Lewis would be hitting the pavement about now.’

He looked up the building, asked:

‘What is it, ten stories? He came out the window, you think that’d do it?’

Porter threw up his arms in disgust, got in the car, Brant was on his mobile phone and waited a moment, said:

‘And a good afternoon to you, love your show, I was wondering if you could tell me who wrote ‘First Cut’?’

He nodded, cut the connection, said:

‘You owe me twenty quid.’

Porter sighed, a sigh that contained all the times that Brant had exasperated him, asked:

‘What now?’

Brant said in a perfect tone of P. G. Wodehouse:

‘Home, Jeeves, home.’

FALLS AND ANDREWS were in the home of Tim Peters, the man who said his vigilante group were led by a cop. Falls had once heard,
Never trust a man with two first names
.

The guy looked like a docker, a very elderly one, he was seventy if a day. Falls said:

‘Mr Peters, if you wouldn’t mind going through your story one more time, so we’re sure of all the details.’

‘Tim.’

Falls stopped, asked:

‘What?’

He had once been a powerfully built man, but age had diminished if not deleted his physical prowess. His voice was ragged, like someone who’d smoked a thousand cigarettes and wasn’t finished yet. He smiled, exposing National Health false teeth, gleaming in their whiteness. He said:

‘Please call me Tim.’

They could do that, but Falls mainly wanted to call his bluff. A group of old-age vigilantes, for fuck’s sake. Andrews, anxious to impress Falls, took over, said:

‘Tim it is, now if we could have the story from the beginning?’

He took out a plastic bag and some cigarette papers, offered them, they declined, and he began to expertly roll one. He said, as he wet the rollie: