sergeant.’
Lewis began to punch numbers into the phone and Porter said:
‘Well, thank you for your time, sir, we’ll be off now, and sorry for the inconvenience.’
Porter didn’t know what Brant might do, but to his surprise and considerable relief, Brant stood up, leaned over the desk, and dropped his cig in Lewis’s cup of coffee. Then they were at the door and Porter realized he was sweating, Brant turned back, asked:
‘How come a fuck like you, you got all this money, you can’t find somebody to shoot straight?’
Lewis locked eyes with Brant, said:
‘I hope you enjoyed your little game, Sergeant. By tomorrow, I’ll have your warrant card. Your days of aggression are over.’
Brant seemed like he might move back towards Lewis and Porter was ready to prevent that, Brant said:
‘Your brother, the rapist, he was a piece of shit, but you, you’re something even worse.’
When they were outside the building, Porter launched:
‘The fuck is the matter with you? I thought we’d agreed on the good cop routine for you?’
Brant moved towards their car, said:
‘That was my good cop. If I’d been the other, Lewis would be hitting the pavement about now.’
He looked up the building, asked:
‘What is it, ten stories? He came out the window, you think that’d do it?’
Porter threw up his arms in disgust, got in the car, Brant was on his mobile phone and waited a moment, said:
‘And a good afternoon to you, love your show, I was wondering if you could tell me who wrote ‘First Cut’?’
He nodded, cut the connection, said:
‘You owe me twenty quid.’
Porter sighed, a sigh that contained all the times that Brant had exasperated him, asked:
‘What now?’
Brant said in a perfect tone of P. G. Wodehouse:
‘Home, Jeeves, home.’
16
Falls and Andrews were in the home of Tim Peters, the man who said his vigilante group were led by a cop. Falls had once heard, Never trust a man with two first names.
The guy looked like a docker, a very elderly one, he was seventy if a day. Falls said:
‘Mr Peters, if you wouldn’t mind going through your story one more time, so we’re sure of all the details.’
‘Tim.’
Falls stopped, asked:
‘What?’
He had once been a powerfully built man, but age had diminished if not deleted his physical prowess. His voice was ragged, like someone who’d smoked a thousand cigarettes and wasn’t finished yet. He smiled, exposing National Health false teeth, gleaming in their whiteness. He said:
‘Please call me Tim.’
They could do that, but Falls mainly wanted to call his bluff. A group of old-age vigilantes, for fuck’s sake. Andrews, anxious to impress Falls, took over, said:
‘Tim it is, now if we could have the story from the beginning?’
He took out a plastic bag and some cigarette papers, offered them, they declined, and he began to expertly roll one. He said, as he wet the rollie:
‘Bill…
His voice faltered, a sorrow leaking over it, then continued:
‘Lord rest him, he saw a copper on the beat, outside that new shopping centre in Balham?’
Falls knew how easy it would be to see who was on duty there, and already she had a sinking feeling as to who it might be. Only one copper was pulling those shite details.
He continued:
‘Bill saw him ram one of those hoodies against a wall, it sure impressed Bill. Those kids, they wear the hoods pulled up, adds to their intimidation, and they got to talking. Bill told him of the problems we were having in the street here.’
Andrews interrupted:
‘Which problems were they?’
Falls shot her a look, Jesus, never interrupt a witness in full flow. He was taken aback then focused, said:
‘Every weekend, they gather outside, shouting and drinking, taking God knows what drugs, that crack cocaine no doubt, playing loud, awful music, that rap stuff, and sometimes, they’ll throw a brick through the window. And if you go out? Well, you didn’t ever go out, too many of them, the ringleader was an Asian fellah, nicknamed Trick. He was a nasty piece of work.’
Andrews did it again, asked:
‘Why didn’t you call the police?’
His laugh was slightly louder than Falls’s was, he said:
‘Yeah, they’d rush over our area, it’s a real high priority on their list.’
His bitterness was deep and set, he went on:
‘So, this copper, he suggested we form a group, take them on, deal with it our own selves.’
Andrews again:
‘Tim, I’m a little surprised you were so easily convinced to form what is, in reality, a criminal group?’
His shout startled her as he echoed:
‘Criminal? I’ll tell you what’s criminal, lass, and that’s to live in fear.’
Falls nearly smiled, it shut Andrews up. He said:
‘It seemed like the answer to our prayers and it was going good… ’
His face lit up as he briefly relived the rush of laying out on for the thugs. He had real energy in his voice as he said:
‘The little bastards never knew what hit them, and we were winning, till Bill… till Bill got, well… you know.’
Andrews, trying to regain some ground, asked:
‘Please describe the alleged policeman?’
He shook his head, said:
‘No need.’
Falls was definitely warming to the guy. Andrews, a note of petulance in her voice, sat up straight, asked:
‘Are you refusing to give us… ’
He cut her off with:
‘Calm down, lass. I don’t need to describe him.’
Andrews, standing now, leaned over him, said:
‘Sir, let me remind you that failure to cooperate with the police…’
He put up his hand to stop her, said:
‘I have a photograph.’
Neither of the policewomen spoke. He stood up, went to a chest of drawers, said: ‘My niece gave me one of them phone camera jobs, and I got a snap of him the night we went to war.’
He produced the photo. Falls was up, grabbed it out of his hand, flipped the cover, and hit the button, the
