‘Fuck off to Ireland then.’
But he knew Brant was a copper and a rough one, plus he’d given him large, so he said:
‘Great game.’
What Brant knew was it was a mix of hockey and murder.
Caz was already in the pub, wearing a garish shirt that had hoola hoops, naked brown women, and the logo
CHELSEA GOES RED.
A reference to the Russian billionaire who’d bought the club and was currently buying every player in the first division. Brant said:
‘I didn’t know you followed the footie.’
Caz was confused, went:
‘I don’t.’
Brant nodded at the shirt, and Caz said:
‘I just liked the colour.’
Brant ordered a pint and said to the bar guy:
‘Put it on the tab.’
The guy asked:
‘What tab? We don’t do tabs.’
‘You do now.’
He sat, looked at Caz, who said:
‘I can get you some of these shirts, at cost.’
Brant laughed, shook his head, and said:
‘I wanna go spic, I’ll let you know.’
Caz wasn’t sure what this meant but knew he’d been insulted, with Brant what else did he expect.
Brant asked:
‘So what have you got for me?’
Caz could hardly contain his excitement, had intended to draw it out and thus raise the value, but he blurted out:
‘The Manners case?’
Brant was midswallow, had to put down the glass and act casual, went:
‘Yeah, so?’
Caz felt the moment deserved his ethnic aspirations, said:
‘Ees is big, no, mucho importante?’
Got a slap to his ear and the warning:
‘Drop that wetback shit.’
Chastened, Caz said:
‘I think I know who the guy is.’
Brant took out his cigs. The Oz were finished and he was back to Embassy. He missed those Australian packs. Lit up and Caz asked for one.
Was told:
‘Bad for your health, but not as bad as fucking with me.’
Caz took a breath, said:
‘There’s a hooker. She says she knows the guy who is killing people.’
‘Name?’
Caz felt his energy slipping, whined:
‘Can we discuss reward?’
Another slap to the ear, so he said:
‘Her name is Mandy, but she won’t give it up for free. She wants paying.’
Brant smiled, went:
‘She’ll get what’s coming to her.’
Caz slipped an address across the table, said:
‘She won’t talk to you alone; she insists I be there.’
Brant stood up, drained his pint, said:
‘Don’t welsh out on the tab.’
And was gone. Caz considered phoning Mandy, telling her it hadn’t gone as hoped and warning her about Brant, then thought, There’s no warning in the world to prepare for that animal. He began to root in his pockets to pay the freight.
In this city, things were happening all the time, all over the place, and you didn’t have to be a detective to smell evil in the wind.
18
Fuck fuck fuck… sorry to start like that but I’m seriously pissed. And worse, I haven’t killed anybody since last we talked. I screwed up, can you believe it? I can’t frigging credit I’ve been so stupid. You’ve got a good idea of how smart I am by now… right?
Had it all together, chugging along nicely, killing at my leisure, a solid gig going, no waves. Putting it all down here in my diary. I mean you gotta keep a record, like I’m gonna do all this shit and be unknown. Be, as the profilers term it, ‘an unsub.’ Like Ford, when he realized the jig was up. I’ve followed him too closely and got screwed the same way. Yeah, a woman. Ford had it all together, Jim Thompson had it all down, then it all fell apart. I was so sure I had the measure of Mandy Yeah, it’s her, the treacherous bitch. I underestimated her. I keep this diary in a safe place, course I do, I mean I haven’t lost the plot entirely. But I had it in my home, which I rarely do, and got drunk with her, passed out. Woke to find her about to leave and she was edgy, nervous, anxious to go. I asked:
‘Anything wrong, hon?’
Man, she was jumpy, went:
‘Ah, no, ah, I’m… late for the hairdressers…’
And she was gone. Lying through her fucking teeth. I know liars, having spent so much of my life practicing.
The diary, the journal, my goddam life is kept in a leather-bound volume that I bought on Charing Cross Road. Vellum parchment, the whole nine yards. Course, as a child of the movies, I’d laid a thin hair across the front, not that I for a moment thought anyone would have access, but I enjoyed the Bondish touch. The hair was gone, the book had been opened. She knew. I don’t know if she had time to read it all but enough to send her flying. Considered going after her, nailing her on the street and doing her. But that infringed my code, the bloody code. It would spoil the whole deal I’d been arranging and, worse, I’d be exposed. So straightaway, I got out of there and down to Waterloo, hired a locker, put the diary in. Sweat fairly running off me, went to a kiosk, ordered a large crushed OJ. The assistant tried to flirt with me, going:
‘Hot enough for you?’
I gave her the cold eye, said:
‘I’m spoken for.’
And fucked off out of there, back to the flat to await the arrival of the cops because they’d be coming. Went round the whole area, seeing if there was anything to connect me besides the word of a hooker. She’d tell, oh yeah,
