The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead (4 page)

Brant lit up, asked: ‘You packed ’em in, Guv. How long now?’

‘Five years, four weeks, two days and... Roberts looked at his watch, ‘...Nine hours. More or less.’

‘Don’t miss ’em at all, eh?’

‘Never give ’em a moment’s thought.’

Brant’s chest gave a rumble, phlegm screaming ‘OUT’ and he said: ‘You heard about the new kid. Tome?’

‘It’s Tone, but what?’

‘He answered a mugging call. An old-age pensioner was set upon by four kids. Took his pension. The usual shit. So, along comes the bold Tone, says: ‘Why didn’t you fight back?’

Roberts laughed out loud, said: ‘He never!’

‘Straight up, Guv, the old boy says, “I’m eighty-six fugging years old, what am I gonna do, bite then with my false teeth?” Then, Tone asks if he got a description and the old boy says: “Yeah, they were in their teens with baseball caps and them hooded tops, like half a million other young thugs. But they used offensive language. Might that be a clue?”’

Roberts went and got some more tea and two chocolate snack biscuits.

Brant said: ‘Don’t wanna be funny, Guv, but I’d prefer coffee.’

‘Who can tell the difference? So, are you going to watch out for young Tone?’

‘You think I should?’

‘Yes. Yes I do.’

‘All righty then, we’ll make a fascist of him yet.’

‘That I don’t doubt.’

A
FTER BRANT HAD LEFT
Roberts returned to his paper. He wanted to read an interview with John Malkovich. He’d seen him give Clint Eastwood the run around in the late night movie,
In the Line of Duty.
And here’s what he read:

‘“What the public perceives is shit and what they think is vomit for the best part. The public doesn’t read Faulkner, it reads Danielle Steele. The movies they think are good I couldn’t even watch.’ – actor John Malkovich.”

‘Good Lord’, said Roberts, ‘The man has the soul of a copper, pure brass.’ There was a photo of the actor, shaved skull, predatory eyes, and Roberts thought: ‘You ugly bastard.’ Yet, as is the way of a loaded world, woman adored him. Unconsciously, Roberts’ hand ran over his head. The gesture brought no comfort. He remembered when he first courted Fiona – the sheer adrenaline rush of just being in her presence. He missed two people: a) the girl she was; b) the person she’d made him feel he might have been. A deep sigh escaped him.

•        •        •

Back at the station, Roberts was summoned to the Chief Super’s office. Chief Superintendent Brown resembled a poor man’s Neil Kinnock. For a time he’d cultivated the image but as the winds of political change blew, and blew cold, he’d tried to bury it. His thinning black hair was dyed – and very badly. Men believe they can pop into Boots, buy the gear and do the job at home: presto! A fresh colour of youth and no one the wiser. Oh boy, even the postman knows. Women go to a salon, pay the odds and get it done professionally. The Chief’s latest colour was darker than a Tory soul. Roberts knocked, heard: ‘Enter.’ Thought: ‘Wanker.’

Brown was gazing at his framed photos of famous batsmen, said: ‘Time-wasting by batsmen – like to explain that to me, laddie?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Very well, I’ll tell you: other than in exceptional circumstances, the batsman should always be ready to strike when the bowler is ready to start his run.’

Then he waited. Roberts wasn’t sure if he required an ‘Oh, well done, sir!’ or not. He settled for not.

Brown ummed and ah’d, then said: ‘The newspaper chappies have been on to me.’

‘About the hanging?’

‘What hanging?’

Roberts explained and Brown shouted: ‘Hard not to approve eh, but hardly pc.’

‘No. I’m referring to some crackpot called the Umpire, who’s threatened to kill the cricket team.’

Roberts smiled, said: ‘Then the bugger will have to stand inline.’

Brown gave him the Kinnock look, all insulted dignity.

‘Really, Chief Inspector, that’s in appalling bad taste. Probably some nut-case, eh?’

‘Or a paki more like.’

‘Get on it, Roberts, toot-sweet.’

Outside, Roberts muttered: ‘get on bloody what?’

•        •        •

Brant was mid-joke: ‘So I asked her, can I have the last dance. She said: “You’re having it, mate.”’

Loud guffaws from the assembled constabulary. Roberts barked: ‘Get me the current file on nutters.’

As he strode past, Brant clicked his heels and gave a crisp Hitler salute. More guffaws.

The CA Club was situated in Lower Belgravia. Vice thrives best in the centre. Ask Mark Thatcher. Inside it looked like a Heals catalogue. All soft furnishings, pastel colours. A woman approached Penny and Fiona. Dressed in what used to be optimistically called a ‘pants suit’, she was a healthy sixty. Everything had been lifted but was holding. It gave her face the immobile rictus of a death mask. She gushed:

‘My dears, welcome to Cora’s. To the CA.’

Penny handed her a card, which she discreetly put away before suggesting: ‘Drinkees?’

Fiona had an overpowering urge to shout: ‘Get real.’ Being married to a policeman did that. Penny said: ‘Pina Coladas.’

‘Oh dear, yes. Bravo.’ And she took off. Fiona said: ‘Where is everybody?’

‘Fucking.’

Cora reappeared, followed by two young men. They looked like Boyzone wannabies. Cora placed the drinks on a table with a catalogue, said:

‘Enjoy, mon chéries.’

The men stood smiling. Fiona looked at Penny, said: ‘Oh God, I hope they’re not going to sing.’

Penny was flicking through the catalogues. Page on page of guys, all nationalities and all young.

Fiona lifted her drink, said: ‘I never know, do you eat or drink these?’

Penny said to the men: ‘I’d like to book Sandy,’ then nudged Fiona: ‘C’mon girl. Pick.’

Fiona tried to concentrate. An entry looked like this:

Photo (some gorgeous hunk)

Name:

Vital Stats:

Age: (all 19/20)

Hobbies: (they all hang-glided, skied and squashed)

Fiona had a vision of the sky over Westminster, near black with gliding Sandys and all with the killer smile. She said: ‘Jeez, I can’t decide, I mean... are they real?’

Penny, impatient, said: ‘I’m getting itchy, twitchy, and bitchy – here, take Jason, he’s a good hors d’oeuvre.’

‘Will I have to talk to him?’

Penny touched her hand: ‘Honey, we ain’t here to talk.’

T
HE ENGLAND WICKET-KEEPER, ANTHONY
Heaton, was a rarity in sport. A classical scholar, he believed he had the ear of the common people. In private moments, he’d listen to ‘Working Class Hero’ and smile smugly.

As part of his public bonding, he frequently rode the tube. But the Northern Line will test the very best of men. As he headed down the non-functional Oval escalator, he whispered:

‘Rudis indegestaque moles’
– ‘I’d hoped for something better.’

On the platform, he watched a nun pacing. Steeped in the mystique of
Brideshead Revisited,
he was fascinated by Catholicism. At college he had been described as ‘Anthony Blythe with focus’. He thought their rituals very beautiful. Now the nun made a second sweep of the platform, not glancing at the destinations board, which read:

Morden 3 min          Kennington 4 min

Then he saw what she was casing, the chocolate machine. Anthony could quote: ‘Oh sweet temptation’ and ‘Thrice you shall betray me’.

Now the nun stopped and rooted in her habit, her face flushed with expectation. Coins were ‘thunked’ in and a calculated selection made. Cadbury’s Turkish Delight. A classic. The handle was pulled and the nun moved in for the kill. Anthony watched her face, ‘un-lined, unblemished’. She could be sixteen or sixty. Definitely from the Philippines, who were producing a bumper crop of nuns for the nineties.

One of Anthony’s team-mates had said recently: ‘Hell is Imelda Marcos singing “Amazing Grace”.’

No chocolate:
nada,
zip,
tipota.
The nun looked round in dismay. As the Americans say: ‘Who you gonna call?’

The train could be heard approaching and Anthony could see tears in the nun’s eyes. He moved with the grace he kept for Lords, and one, two, open-palmed he hit the machine.

The Turkish Delight popped out. With a flourish, he presented her with her prize. The nun was beaming, her face aglow, and she said: ‘God be praised.’

He nodded gravely, added: ‘Veritas.’

After Anthony Heaton’s murder, the nun would gaze at his photo in the paper and hope they’d given him the last rites. In her breviary, beside his snap, was a neatly folded chocolate wrapper, smooth as a silent prayer.

David Eddings was one of the England batsmen. He was having a bad morning. His wife had issued an ultimatum.

‘You go on tour and I’m history.’

He hadn’t handled it well, his reply being: ‘I’ll help you pack.’

The toaster had short-circuited and there was no bloody orange. Losing it, he shouted: ‘Where’s my juice?’

From upstairs the sound of slamming doors, suitcases, and: ‘That’s what the
Daily Express
asked too.’

Said paper had been sniping at his age. The doorbell rang and he shouted again: ‘Are you going to get that?’

‘Well I doubt it will answer itself, darling.’

A hiss underlined the endearment. A yeah, he’d definitely heard a sss... Striding to the door, muttering: ‘This flaming better be good.’

He pulled it open. A postman, not their usual. Postbag held in front of his chest, he said: ‘Batsman leaving the field.’

‘What?’

And coming out of the bag was a barrel of a gun. Now the postman intoned: ‘I am the Umpire. When a batsman has left the field or retired and is unable to return owing to illness or injury, he is to be recorded as “retired, not out”.’

And he shot David Eddings in the face.

W
HEN THE CALL ON
the shooting came through, Brant was, as usual, missing. He’d left his bleeper on the desk. There it shrilled till a passing sergeant dropped it in the bin.

Brant was in the canteen, smoking a Player’s Weight. These were only available in a tobacconist off Bond Street, on a shelf with Sobranies, Woodbines and snuff: the forgotten stimulants of a Jack the Ripper-era London. Brant had an arrangement with the owner – ‘I’ll keep an eye on the premises.’ There had been five break-ins since his pledge. Unfazed, he asked: ‘Did they get my Weights?’

‘No.’

‘See: no taste, no worries.’

He took a deep drag now. As the powerful nicotine blasted across his lungs, he gasped: ‘Jaysus.’

A radio was blaring Michael Bolton and he muttered: ‘Shut up, yah whining wanker – put a bloody sock in it.’ And chanced another draw of the cigarette. In unison, if not in harmony, a WPC gave a series of short, sharp coughs. Brant’s head came up like a setter.

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘S-sorry sarge, the WPC stammered, ‘I’ve got a strep throat – nothing will shift it.’

He gave a professional smile. It’s in the manual and has absolutely no relation to warmth. He said: ‘There is one sure cure.’

The WPC was surprised. New to the force, she’d heard he was an animal but maybe she’d be the very person to bring out his feminine side. Show he was gentle, caring and compassionate and hey – he wasn’t at all bad looking – a bit rough but she could change that. Encouraged, she asked: ‘What’s it called?’

‘C-men.’

‘C-what?’

‘C-men. It’s got to be delivered orally. I’m off at four, I could come round, let you have it.’

A moment before it clicked. As the words took shape on her lips, she felt bile in her stomach. Jumping to her feet she said: ‘You... animal!’ And ran out, leaving three-quarters of her apple danish. He reached over, broke a wedge off and popped it in his mouth, went ‘mmm,’ and muttered: ‘Women? Go figure.’

The duty sergeant put his head round the door and said: ‘Brant, all hell’s broken loose, better get outta here.’

‘Another hanging, I hope.’ He snatched up the remains of the danish and between bites managed to hum a bar of Michael Bolton.

The fucking rooms at the CA were a rampage of luxury: Wet bar, silk sheets, soft to softest furnishings. Jason was twelve, or so it seemed to Fiona. But the body was a healthy twentysomething. He’d lightly oiled his torso and it made his tan glow. He was dressed only in black shiny briefs. Fiona couldn’t keep her eyes off it. She had a variety of witty lines to break the ice but they translated as ‘ah.’ Jason smiled – teeth that shouted ‘capped glory’. He said: ‘What’s your pleasure?’

Alas, he tried for husky but Peckham and tight undies played havoc. Fiona went up to him, said: ‘Shush. Shh... She put her hand in his knickers, gasped: ‘Oh God!’, fell to her knees and took him in her mouth. Then, breaking off, she said: ‘Jason, I want you to fuck me till I can’t walk but I don’t want you to speak, not now – not ever. Can you do that?’

He could and he did.

Her husband, meanwhile, was also being fucked, but over, by the Chief Super, the press and Mrs David Eddings.

By the time Brant reached him, he was in the coronary zone, barked: ‘Been on vacation, have you?’

‘Sorry, Guv, was chasing down leads on the “E”.’

‘The what?’

‘“E”, sir – E for enough. The hanging job, or did it slip your mind? You’ve a lot on, I suppose.’

Through a barrage of obscenities, Roberts outlined the cricket murder. Brant looked thoughtful, then said: ‘Bit of a sticky wicket what?’

‘You know cricket?’

‘That’s it, Guv – only the one expression, I have to ration it.’

‘Well, you’re about to get an education. I shall personally ensure you get a crash course. Don’t the Irish play?’

Brant tried to look deprived. It made him Satanic.

‘Just hurling I’m afraid.’

‘What’s that then?’

‘A cross between hockey and murder.’

‘Wonderful, I’ve a thick Paddy to help me. Get down to the incident room, it should be set up by now.’