‘You deaf, turn the fucking thing around, let’s go see the Clapham Rapist’s brother, Rodney, is it?’
Porter swung round, a U-turn in the middle of heavy traffic, followed by howls of car horns. Brant put out his middle finger to all. Porter asked:
‘Shouldn’t we get some more evidence before we confront him?’
Brant snorted:
‘Fuck that, I’ll know if he’s the cunt.’
Thesheer vehemence of his words and the obscenity Porter loathed made him swerve dangerously but he reined in, pulled the car back on track, said:
‘He lives in Mayfair.’
Brant was shaking his head, said:
‘No good, let’s go to his office, do the whole cop heavy deal, let his colleagues see who he is.’
Porter was very uneasy, intimidation, though he used it, never sat easily, and he tried:
‘But what if he’s innocent?’
Brant laughed, an ugly cackle, said:
‘Then he’s nothing to worry about, has he?’
Porter was nearing the city, the smell of money in the air, the bombings had dented the traders… sure… but not for long… money recovers faster than anything else on the planet.
Ask Donald Trump.
Brant leaned over, turned on the radio, and, of course, didn’t ask:
‘You kidding?’
The song playing was ‘First Cut Is the Deepest’ and to Porter’s amazement, Brant listened intently, and… looked like he was suffering, then he snapped the radio off, asked:
‘Know who wrote that song?’
Without hesitation, Porter said:
‘Rod Stewart?’
Brant was delighted, said:
‘Everybody thinks that. Bet you twenty quid it wasn’t.’
Porter was so relieved to see him come out of the suffering mode that he agreed to the wager and asked:
‘So, who do you think wrote it?’
Brant was lighting another cig and Porter would have sold his soul for a drag, Brant exhaled, said:
‘I don’t think, I know who did.’
Porter found a space near Rodney Lewis’s office, prodded:
‘Yeah, so is it like a secret or do we have a bet?’
Brant laughed, said:
‘Fucking money from a baby, money for old rope… it was Cat Stevens.’
Porter felt he already had the twenty in his wallet… Cat Stevens… yeah, right.
Friends say I’m putting a brave face on it-Bollocks-This is far and away the most stimulating, fascinating thing that’s ever happened to me.
15
The building housing Rodney Lewis’s office was impressive in that English mode. Let you know in an understated fashion that here be mega bucks and managed to convey that, unless you had lots of cash, you were way off track. Lewis’s office was spacious, bright, with a severe secretary sitting behind an impressive desk. Porter had asked a few moments before:
‘How’d you want to play this?’
Brant, not breaking stride, asked:
‘Play what? Talk right for fuck’s sake.’
Porter explained did they want to do the tried and familiar route of good cop/bad cop?
Brant said:
‘Only if I get to play the good cop, I’m tired of always being the hard arse.’
Porter wanted to shout:
‘How do you think we feel?’
He said:
‘Okay, make a nice change.’
The secretary was not pleased to see them, Porter asked if they might have a word with Mr Rodney Lewis? Her expression said that pigs might fly, she snapped:
‘Do you have an appointment? Mr Lewis is a very busy man.’
Porter was gearing up to be the hard arse when Brant said:
‘Tell him the cops are here, in connection with his shooting of a policeman.’
She was stunned and Porter stared, mouth open at Brant, Brant said to him:
‘Close your mouth, you look like a half-wit.’
The secretary went to the back of the office, disappeared behind an oak door, Brant said:
‘Probably grabbing a smoke.’
Porter was furious, accused:
‘What happened to our deal?’
Brant was pocketing some pens from the secretary’s desk, said:
‘You think that was bad? Man, that’s me real mellow side.’
The secretary was back, said:
‘Mr Lewis will see you now, he’s the last door on the right.’
Brant winked at her and they headed for the office. Porter was about to knock, but Brant just opened the door, strode in.
Rodney Lewis had one of those ear things that lets you talk on the mobile, hands free, he was in his late forties, dressed in pinstripe, with a full head of coiffed grey hair. He was carrying plenty of weight, the kind that came from good food, and he had sharp dark eyes that watched them with a vague disinterest. What he mostly conveyed was confidence and money, oodles of both. A slight smile played on his lower lip, he asked:
‘Gentlemen, to what do I owe the pleasure of the visit?’
Porter couldn’t swear but he sure sounded like the guy on the tape, the rich, posh accent, with arrogance riding point. Brant slumped into a chair, on Lewis’s right, Porter stayed standing. Brant asked:
‘Why’d you shoot me?’
Lewis sat stock still for a moment, then recovered, reached for his phone, said directly to Porter:
‘I think we better get my lawyer in on this.’
Porter looked at Brant, who, naturally, was lighting a cig, then he said:
‘There’s no need, sir. We were just wondering if you could perhaps help us with the shooting of a police officer?’
Lewis watched Brant for a minute, then said:
‘Of course, Sergeant Brant, who was involved in the death of my brother, and you think what? That this was my revenge?’
Brant continued to say nothing, just smoked like his life depended on it, Porter tried:
‘You can appreciate, sir, that we have to look at everybody who might harbour a grudge towards the
