up.’
26
Roberts was assigned forgery detail. He was standing before Brown, the Super, and moaned:
‘But, sir, isn’t this territory for the fraud squad?’ Brown was having his morning tea, replete with a digestive biscuit. This was a ritual of horrendous proportion. He dipped the biscuit in the tea, then let it dribble into his mouth, a feat that required contortions that would have put off a lesser man. And the slurping sounds that attended this were enough to warrant justifiable homicide. Usually he performed this act in private but if he wanted to annoy an officer, he allowed them to share the spectacle. He really wanted to annoy Roberts. He felt the chief inspector was getting uppity; since he’d solved so many cases, he’d developed an air of superiority. Time to let him know who had the real juice. Brown said:
‘There’s been a rash of dodgy fifty notes circulating, and the brass want this sorted quickly. Since you’re the whiz kid of the moment, I said you’d be glad to help. You are glad, aren’t you?’
Roberts tried to turn his eyes away from the dripping biscuit, knew he was snookered, but went:
‘I appreciate the vote of confidence, sir, but I hate to butt into another department’s area.’
Brown rolled the soggy biscuit round his gums, his mouth open, said:
‘You let me worry about that, that’s what command is all about, just clear this up pronto.’
Roberts sighed, said:
‘Yes, sir.’
He was almost out the door when Brown said:
‘Tell my secretary to bring me another biscuit, this one was stale.’
Roberts rang the Fraud Squad, knew one of their guys named Foster, asked:
‘Got a few minutes?’
Heard a low laugh and went:
‘What?’
Foster was an okay guy, Roberts had had the odd pint with him and they’d walked the beat in the old days. Foster said:
‘Wondered how long it would take you to call.’
Roberts was a bit put out, thought he’d have to go into a long spiel about meddling in their territory and he’d try not to step on anyone’s toes, the whole grovelling gig. But here the guy was, expecting him. What was that about? Foster said:
‘We’d a pool going here as to how long before you’d call, you just earned me a few quid.’
Roberts had found it cut the shit when you admitted you’d no idea what the hell was going on, so he said:
‘What the hell is going on?’
Foster was still chuckling, asked:
‘Dodgy fifties, am I right?’
‘Yes, normally your manor.’
Foster said something to the squad in the background and there was a loud round of applause, then:
‘Yeah, we handle bent currency every day, but when a certain Super gets almost arrested for passing a counterfeit note, you know he’s going to get personal.’
Roberts nearly laughed himself, asked:
‘Brown was burned?’
‘Oh yeah, in a swanky club in Mayfair. Let’s just say there were hostesses involved and no one spots funny money as fast as those girls.’
Roberts was delighted, anything that punctured that smugness of Brown’s was good.
Foster was saying:
‘So a chief inspector assigned to funny money, what a come-down.’
Roberts wasn’t offended, asked:
‘Tell me how to fix this?’
Foster stalled till Roberts asked:
‘Okay, what do you want?’
The old barter deal, scratch my back or paddle your own canoe. Foster said:
‘Be nice to have seats for the Test Series.’
Roberts groaned but in truth wasn’t fazed, Brant usually had some spare, so said:
‘That’s asking a lot.’
Foster knew the deal was done said:
‘And a case of some hooch, keep the nip out.’
‘Sure you don’t want a car to collect you?’
‘Great idea.’
Foster then told him to grab a guy named Fitz, hung out in East Lane Market, but to tread carefully, the guy was volatile. Roberts asked:
‘How careful are we talking here?’
‘Tool up and bring back-up.’
‘Enjoy the cricket.’
Roberts didn’t think he needed back-up for some dodgy money character. Nor did he want help. What he wanted was to clear this nonsense and in jig-time. He headed for the market. Maybe buy some designer shirts too, spruce up his image; he certainly wouldn’t be buying a suit. He figured he’d nail this fast, keep up his record of near full closure on all his duties. He was smiling as he thought of Brown, ogling a hostess, tipping her with a fifty, last of the big spenders, and then the consternation when the money was found to be bogus.
27
When Falls stormed out of the Oval, leaving McDonald behind, she had a moment of total indecision. Her car was parked at the church and she debated calling a cab then said the hell with it, she’d drive. Got in the car, put the safety belt on, checked her rear mirror, then eased out into traffic. She was still seething with McDonald, the stupid bastard, carrying a piece, coked out of his tree, and mouthing off.
Then she was rear-ended.
Went:
‘The fuck is that…?’
Stopped the car, tore out, ready to cripple whoever hit her. A BMW was about a foot behind her, and a man got out, wearing a very expensive leather jacket, not unlike McDonald’s. She thought, what, there’s a goddam sale of the bloody things and the man went:
‘OH-MI-GOD, are you okay? I am so desperately sorry, all my fault… oh, you’re gorgeous.’
She didn’t know how to react, it had been so long since she’d gotten a compliment that she was completely thrown. The anger she’d readied leaked away, even as she realized that he was probably snowing her. Who cared when he was as gorgeous as he was. It was a long time since Falls had laid eyes on a truly handsome man, she’d forgotten the sheer thrill of it. He had eyes as blue as Paul Newman’s and do they come any bluer? The guy’s hair was dark brown, tossed in that way that costs a fortune. You pay the stylist a ransom to make you look like you ran your fingers through it, as if you couldn’t be bothered. She wanted to reach out and touch it. He had a square jaw, wide mouth, and he was tall, with a slender build. His voice was deep, and cliched though it was, he sounded like
