Ammunition (17 page)

‘My new little friend has disappeared, now I wonder why. I’d plans for that boy and 1 have a sneaky suspicion that you, Liz, mind if I call you that, I think you had something to do with it.’

Falls felt a rush of emotions, delight that the bastard was gone, she was off the hook, fear as to what Brant had done to him, and mostly, dread of what Angie had in mind. Angie crossed her legs, letting the sound of nylon hover, then said:

‘Liz, unless I get him back, I’m going to have to go to the papers with our… affair. You think the
Tabloid
would be interested in that?’

Falls lashed out with the bottle, catching Angie square across the top of her head, then screamed:

‘Don’t fucking threaten me, you piece of crap. I’m a fucking police officer.’

Vodka packs more of a wallop than you’d expect.

—Sergeant Elizabeth Falls

ANGIE WASN’T MOVING, she was sprawled on the sofa, her eyes rolled back in her head.

Falls dropped the bottle, moved to the sofa, tried:

‘Angie, Angie, you okay?’

Nope.

Falls, panicked, felt for a pulse.

None.

She staggered back and nearly slipped on the Stoli. She grabbed it, pulled off the cap, and drank from the neck, the liquid running down her Snoopy shirt. She let the booze burn her stomach then gasped:

‘I’ve fucking killed the bitch… oh Jesus.’

CallingBrant was out of the question, and she certainly wasn’t calling the squad.

Fuck, no way.

She had to get the body out of here and now.

She grabbed her car keys, pulled Angie upright, got an arm under her shoulder, and pulled her to the door, she opened it cautiously, no one around and did Angie have a car,
no, no sign. She got her in the her own backseat, then slid behind the wheel and started driving, very carefully.

As carefully as you can when you’ve whacked someone’s lights out and guzzled most of a bottle of spirits. She didn’t know how long she was driving, her mind refusing to come up with a plan. Finally, she stopped, in Croydon, beside a deserted warehouse. Turned her engine off.

She checked her surroundings, not a soul and better, beside the warehouse was a Dumpster. She got Angie out and dragged her by the hair to the Dumpster, Angie’s shoes were gone.

Where were the fucking shoes, in the car?

She got the lid off the Dumpster, that sucker was heavy, then with an almighty effort, pulled Angie up, threw her in the garbage. The smell from the thing was appalling, a blend of decaying vegetables, she hoped they were vegetables and urine with… curry?

She slammed the lid down. It made a ferocious bang, and she muttered:

‘Nice, real fucking nice, wake the freaking dead.’

Andshe began to giggle, said:

‘Angie, didn’t wake you, did I?’

Hysteria engulfed her, and she added:

‘Don’t ever fucking call me Liz.’

Then a blast of cold wind hit, and she stopped, realized she had to get the hell out of there.

She did.

When she finally got back to her flat, she looked in the backseat for Angie’s shoes. They were there. She took them into her home and first thing, she had a large shot of the Stoli, then a few more and later, tried Angie’s shoes on, they fit:

Snugly.

She was still wearing them when she passed out, thinking:

The night wasn’t a total bust
.

She’d been meaning to buy new shoes.

Who had the time?

BRANT WAS DOZING when the phone shrilled. He grabbed at the receiver, mumbled:

‘Yeah?’

Heard:

‘Congratulations, big boy.’

Very posh tone.

Only one person called him that and, of course, the haughty flighty accent. It had to be that mad cow, his agent, Linda Gillingham-Bowl

Fucking name. Take you a week to get it out.

And he shuddered, he’d ridden the cow, Jesus wept. He’d managed to con Porter Nash into writing most of his novel and then got hold of this agent, a real high-profile one, but fuck, old. He’d meant to ply her with drink, trick her into giving him an advance, and… instead, he’d given her one.

Real bad move.

But it sure made her work like a banshee on his book. He needed coffee, lots of it.

But here was:

‘It’s wonderful you got shot.’

He sat up, his eyes groggy, said:

‘I’m glad you’re pleased.’

He heard her give that artificial laugh they practiced in agent school, and she said: ‘You are so droll, you naughty boy, of course I’m relieved you’re alright but with the imminent publication of
Calibre
, it’s perfect. Hero cop shot on eve of publication. It’s such wondrous PR’

He hated the bitch, said:

‘Glad I could have helped.’

She was highly excited, said:

‘Everybody wants you, all the major chat shows, and with that rugged charm and roguish humour, you’re a natural.’

‘Jesus.’

Before he could add more, there was a pounding on the door, he said:

‘Don’t go away, I have to answer the door.’

More of that awful laughter as she said:

‘I’m hanging on for dear life, you devil.’

He pulled the door open and cops piled in, led by Porter Nash, a slightly ashamed-looking Nash, who said:

‘Sergeant Brant, I’m here to arrest on you suspicion of the murder of Rodney Lewis.’

Brant, took a moment, then said:

‘Can I just finish my call?’

Indicating the phone.

Porter asked:

‘Your lawyer?’

Brant laughed, said:

‘Fuck no, better, it’s me agent.’

He picked up the phone, said:

‘Gotta go, babe. I’ve been arrested.’

She was near orgasmic in her delight, said:

‘You sweetheart, you’re such a marketing dream, this is ideal, you want me to do anything?’

‘Yeah, put up bail.’

He put the phone down, turned to Porter, asked:

‘Can I get some coffee?’

Porter produced a warrant, said:

‘This allows us to make a search of your premises and yes, while we’re conducting the search, you may make coffee, I’m afraid I’ll have to accompany you.’

Brant smiled, asked:

‘Got a fag?’

Any other place being searched would have been tossed with total disregard, the cops not giving a shit about what they damaged or ruined:

But Brant.

Uh-uh.

He might be under arrest, but he was far from gone and they knew better than to fuck with his stuff, so when they
found various items of dope, porn, they ignored it, Brant had a long memory. Their brief was to find a Glock, and that’s all they searched for, if not too diligently.

Brant was savouring his coffee, drawing hard on the menthol cig Porter had given him. Porter was staring at him, asked:

‘You don’t seem too worried. This is a serious charge, and everybody knows you threatened him.’

Brant smiled, no warmth or humour, his most calculated one, said:

‘You know Porter, you were with me, so if everybody knows, you told them, I thought we were mates?’

Porter felt terrible, they were mates, if the most unlikely pairing on the planet, but Porter took his role as cop very seriously, said:

‘If you took the law into your own hands, you’re no longer a policeman.’

Brant was still smiling, asked:

‘When was he hit?’

Porter, taken by surprise, needed a moment to think, then told Brant the time and date.

Brant dropped the cig on the floor, ground it out. Porter had to fight the impulse to clean up. Brant said:

‘I’ve an alibi.’

Porter knew all about Brant’s circle of hookers, who’d do anything for him, said:

‘Your hooker crew won’t bail you on this one I’m afraid.’

Brant stared right into Porter’s eyes, said:

‘Oh, it’s not a hooker, much much better.’

Porter had to know, asked:

‘Might I know who it is?’

Brant took his sweet time, then:

‘Falls, that’s Sergeant Falls to you.’

Then he stuck out his hands, asked:

‘Wanna cuff me?’

Porter had considered it, anything to wipe that fucking smile off his face, but said:

‘No, I don’t think that will be necessary.’

Brant sighed, said:

‘Pity, I thought you gays, you were into all that S and M stuff.’

The lead search cop looked in, said:

‘We found nothing, sir.’

Porter was barely holding it in, snapped:

‘Nothing?’

‘No, sir.’

Brant looked at the cop, winked.

The press had a field day with Brant’s arrest, the killing of Rodney Lewis smacked of vigilante cop justice, and they’d been keen to nail Brant for years.

His agent, true to her word, had a high-priced lawyer ar
rive, and without definite evidence, Brant was bailed. Roberts had been despatched to get over to Falls’s place, see if the alibi held up.

The Super wanted Brant to go down, shouted at Roberts:

‘You tell that black cunt to be very careful about helping Brant get out of this. If he goes down, she’s going with him.’

Roberts wisely, said nothing.

On the steps of the police station, Brant gave an impromptu press conference, replied to all questions:

‘Read it in my new book,
Calibre
, due next week.’

His agent was over the moon.

The man was a publishing bonanza.

FALLS WAS IN a deep stupor when Roberts came banging on her door. Took her a moment to come round, then she felt her stomach heave, a biblical headache kick in, the banging was ferocious on the door, she screamed:

‘Jesus, give me a bloody minute.’

And heard:

‘It’s the police. In a minute we’ll force the door.’

Roberts was alone but in no mood for Falls and her nonsense. Falls thought:

Oh, God. They’ve found Angie already. I’m fucked.

She opened the door, saw Roberts, and nearly threw up on him, he pushed her aside, said:

‘On the piss again, that’s a help.’

She closed the door quietly, the world spun for a moment, and she had to struggle for balance. Roberts surveyed the wreck of the room, bottles everywhere, and then took a closer look at Falls, said:

‘I like the shoes, very classy, though I’m not sure they go with the T-shirt.’

Falls gazed in horror at Angie’s shoes, how the hell did that happen, and at Snoopy on her shirt. Like her own self, he was the worse for wear. Roberts picked up a bottle of Stoli, examined the top, asked:

‘What’d you do, crack someone over the head with this?’

Before Falls could utter a word, he poured a healthy measure into a mug, said:

‘You better have some of this, hair of the dog that bit you. But I think the dog was rabid from the state of you here.’

And he offered the mug, she could hardly hold it from the shakes, but managed to get it to her lips, drank greedily. The liquid hit her like acid and she gasped, thought she was going to spew wholesale, Roberts watched with a certain detached interest. He’d been down this road himself so he wasn’t entirely unsympathetic. It was, in fact, Falls who’d hauled him back from the toilet so there was a certain symmetry in this. The battle in her stomach waged for nearly three minutes. Doesn’t seem long, but if you’re the one with the stomach, it’s eternity:

Her stomach won out and the booze settled in for another session, waiting for more of the same. Roberts said:

‘Sit down before you collapse.’

She did, sit that is.

Kicked off the shoes, Christ, soon as she was able. She was burning those fuckers.

Roberts made some coffee and as he did so, Falls recalled bits and horrendous pieces of the evening before.

Holy shit, she’d killed the Vixen.

Roberts put a steaming mug before her, said:

‘No more booze. Get that down you and let me see if I can get any sense out of you?’

She managed to speak, said:

‘I’m okay now. Why are you here?’

Roberts sat back, remembered when Falls had been the wet dream of the nick, and gung ho, believing a black WPC could really make a difference. The years had soured her beyond belief, but then he didn’t believe a whole lot in anything either. Truth was, he’d always liked her and so he went easier than he’d planned, said: