nose, and he thought he’d better do a few more to see what the fuss was about. Resumed his search and a few moments later was rocked as the dope hit. Felt the cold dribble along his throat and knew something heavy was happening, then he punched the air and said:
‘Alright motherfuckers.’
And got the pure rush, had to stand still and let it wrap him in its embrace. The crystal-clear thinking began immediately. He felt strong, vibrant, the blood was singing in his veins and, speaking of songs, he wanted music. He found the remote control and faced the television. Wanted MTV and wanted it now. Chanced on the news, paused as the lead item was about a notorious p?dophile, Graham Picking who, due to a technicality, was being released from what had appeared to be a slamdunk case. A whole list of children he’d molested and the evidence had been damning, no grey areas. Looked like he was going down forever, but a crucial item of proof had been lost and now the whole case was being thrown out. The screen showed Picking being led out by his grim-faced lawyer, who had the expression of someone who’d lost. Picking was mugging and grinning for the cameras. Something in McDonald clicked and an idea began to form. Almost at the same time, he noticed the right end of the heavy carpet wasn’t quite solid. He’d never have seen it without the coke clarity, he was seeing a brave new world. Bent down and pulled at it, peeled it back and revealed two loose floorboards. Tore them up and BINGO… A wad of money, large denomination notes, plus more coke, and items of jewellery. McDonald selected a heavy gold bracelet, got it on his wrist, liked the feel of it, and the prize, a Sig Sauer P226, 9mm. He said:
‘Fucking A.’
Which was something he’d never thought in his life, nevermind uttered. Lifted the gun and loved the weight, he checked it and noted it held fifteen rounds. A stash of bullets also and he racked the slide, put a round in the chamber, aimed at the screen. Picking’s face in his sights, whispered, ‘Sayonara, sucker.’
Took him a real effort not to squeeze the trigger.
A mistake done twice is not a mistake, It’s called failure.
23
Falls wanted to feel good about Andrews, tried to sell herself the sisterhood bullshit, when one woman succeeds, it’s a victory for all women. Yeah, right. She was in her tattered bathrobe, sipping at tea, her day off, the papers in front of her. Andrews was on the front page of most papers, even The Big Issue had a feature on the deal. What galled Falls was how fucking humble Andrews looked. And truth to tell, she sure did have a pretty face. Next thing she’d be doing the sergeant’s exam and talking about a shoo-in. Falls had failed it countless times. McDonald was sure fucked, though. Falls didn’t see how he could possibly even stay on the force, she knew he’d been suspended and an enquiry was due. The poor bastard was gone, and she’d been so close to the door herself, she felt for him. She almost regretted the black eye she’d given him. When she’d mentioned him to Brant, who could save almost anyone, being a survivor himself, he’d sneered, said:
‘He’s gone.’
And Roberts, who’d been down the toilet a few times, who’d usually go to bat for a cop, had compressed his mouth in a hard line, said:
‘A yellow cop is a dead one.’
She thought of giving McDonald a call and say what?
‘Tough shit, I hear security are always glad to employ a policeman.’
Maybe ask him if he’d like to go out, have a few drinks, but God, what a night that’d be. No, scratch that. She detested McDonald, had had so much aggro with him, she’d lost count. But she hated to see any cop go down. She sighed, took a sip of the cold tea, and tried to figure out how she was going to rise to a level of congratulations for Andrews. She’d just begun to like her too, they’d shared a few memorable moments, but that was over now. You couldn’t hang with a hero, the light would blind you. Falls stood, picked up the papers, and dumped them in the trash.
Crew was tired, trying to figure out his next move and stay ahead of the cops was exhausting. It was like he had to think for three, himself and the two cops. They were coming and that was a given. Plus he had to show up at the goddam office. Being the boss helped, but he still had some major league pissed-off people on the phone, going:
‘When am I getting my audit?’
Accountancy shit and when money was involved, as it was here and heavy, the pissed-off factor rose accordingly.
Wouldn’t it be grand, as the Micks say, if he could tell the truth, go:
‘Hey, I’m trying to kill people here, you wanna give me some fucking slack?’
He was sorely tempted. And he had serious plans to implement if he was to win this game with the cops and stay out of the nick. His secretary, Linda, had been very upset:
‘Mr Crew, clients are demanding to know when they can get some time with you?’
Demanding!
That definitely was in the realm of bad manners. Wouldn’t that be a hoot, kill his client base. Certainly be a first. God knew, the majority of them needed killing. Money only seemed to bring out the very worst in folk. He’d reassured Linda he was on top of his game. Which particular one he didn’t specify. Mandy the treacherous cow, wasn’t taking his calls and wouldn’t answer the door either. Man, it would be a downright pleasure to punch her ticket. He locked himself in his office, began the process of escape. Took some time and when he emerged, exhausted, Linda was moaning, he said:
‘I believe it’s time we gave you a raise.’
Shut her the fuck up, money rang the changes each and every time. Enough to make a chap cynical. He was always glad to get out of the city, the financial centre bored him. He liked money for what it could do but didn’t see it as sexy or hot the way these new young guys spoke about it. Once he went with a few of the youngbloods to a wine bar and they drooled over the amounts they made, the number of dots on a pay-cheque. One of them, seeing his disinterest, asked:
‘What gets you going, Crew?’
As per public schoolboys’s rituals, they addressed you by your surname, which he considered the height of bad manners. He looked at the guy, a wanker in a very expensive suit, sweat under the arms of his Jermyn Street shirt, and replied:
‘I like to make a killing.’
They conceded he was droll and never asked him again. He steered his BMW carefully under the limit, conscious now that any infringement of laws and they’d grab him. He eased the car safely into his drive and unbuckled the seat belt, looking forward to a scotch and soda and the quiet contemplation of his future. As soon as he opened the hall door, he knew something was wrong, the sense of stillness was gone, somebody had been here. Thinking:
The bastards, breaking in while I’m at work.
Walked to the lounge and there was Brant, stretched out on the sofa, a glass balanced on his chest, cigarette dangling from his mouth. He turned, asked:
‘Hard day at the office, dear?’
He dropped his briefcase from shock. Did they have him already? Brant was smiling, said:
‘Gave you a bit of a start there, eh?’
Crew found his voice, asked:
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Intimidating you.’
