He took out his Weights. Asked: ‘D’ya mind?’
‘Personally no, but it is a no smoking zone.’
He lit up, said: ‘Fuck ’em.’ And waited.
Falls wanted to leave. A silent Brant was like a loaded weapon, primed. But she had no alternative. In a small voice, she said: ‘I’m in a spot of bother.’
‘Money or sex?’
‘What?’
‘It’s always one or the other, always.’
‘Oh, right, it’s money.’
‘How much?’
‘Don’t you want to know what for?’
‘Why, what difference does that make? I’ll either give it to you or I won’t, a story won’t help.’
‘It’s a lot.’
He waited.
‘It’s three thou.’
She never knew why she went the extra. Called it nerves, but didn’t believe it.
‘OK.’
She couldn’t believe it, said: ‘Just like that?’
‘Sure, I’m not a bank, you don’t have to bleed.’
‘Oh God, that’s wonderful, I’m in your debt.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘In my debt, like you said, you owe me.’
‘Oh.’
He got up to leave, asked: ‘Was there anything else?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll have the money by close of business — that OK with you?’
‘Of course. I — ’
But he was gone.
Precarious the pose
Brant was in the ‘E’ room. Expecting a long run. Someone had hooked up a microwave. He looked through the goodies and found a Cornish pasty, muttered ‘Mmm,’ and put it in the micro. Zapped it twice and had it out. Took an experimental bite and stomped his foot, tears running from his eyes. The pasty, blazing, had fastened to the roof of his mouth. He grabbed a coke bottle and swallowed. Finally the burning eased and he said: ‘Jaysus.’
A passing WPC said: ‘Don’t touch the Cornish, Sarge, they’re way past their date.’
The phone rang and he snatched it: ‘Incident room “E”.’
‘Are you investigating the hangings?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘I have some information.’
‘Good, that’s good. And your name, sir?’
‘To prove I’m legit, check the last victim’s fingers.’
‘Might be a tad difficult, mate — sir.’
‘Because of the torching? I doubt that would disguise broken fingers. I’ll call back in an hour.’ And the caller hung up.
Brant was electric, got on to Roberts and the coroner. When Roberts arrived, he told him of the call and of the coroner’s confirmation: ‘The bugger was right, and what’s more, I’ve set up for a trace, he was ringing from a mobile, it kept breaking up. We’ll have him if he calls back.’
Roberts was impressed, said: ‘I’m impressed.’
Brant could feel his adrenaline building. It felt like a hit. Roberts took a seat. A picture of calm, he said: ‘Could be the one, the White Arrest.’
Brant had already raced to the same conclusion, was feeling generous in his victory: ‘For us both, Guv.’
‘No, this is all your own, another Rilke, maybe.’
The phone rang. Brant signalled to the technicians, who gave him the green light, and he picked up: ‘Incident room ‘E’.’
‘You checked the fingers?’
‘We’re just waiting for confirmation.’
‘We’re not criminals, we’re only doing what the courts are failing to do.’
Roberts made an S motion in the air. Stall.
‘Why don’t you come in, we’ll have a chat, work something out.’
But the caller was on a different track. ‘It wasn’t meant to be like this, you know, not white people. Not that I’m a racist.’
Brant tried it on. ‘Course you’re not, I mean you live in Brixton, right?’
Roberts shook his head, signalling U-turn. The caller continued: ‘I don’t think he’ll stop now, he likes it.’
‘But you’re different, I can tell. I mean why don’t you and I have a meet?’
There was static on the line, then a note of panic. ‘Shit, I’ve got to go. I’ll call again.’
And then the line died. Brant swore, looked pleadingly to the techs. They were engrossed for a moment, then gave the thumbs up, shouted: ‘Got him!’
Brant punched the air: ‘Yes!’ And a cheer came from the room.
A technician listened, wrote something down, then handed a piece of paper to Brant. He read aloud: ‘ “Leroy Baker”. Got yer ass, fucker.’ And reached for a phone.
Roberts was up, saying: ‘Wait, wait — what’s the name?’
‘Leroy Baker, we have him.’
Roberts took his arm, pulled him to the other side of the room, saying: ‘Listen, Tom.’
‘Fuck listen, let’s go — we’re on him.’
‘Tom, the name. It’s the first victim.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah, he’s using the guy’s mobile.’
Brant sank into a chair, muttering: ‘The thieving scumbag, of all the low-down nasty bastards, I’d like five minutes… and he trailed off into silence.
The room had gone quiet. Roberts said: ‘What’s this, you’ve finished for the day? Get bloody on it!’
A half-hearted hum began to return, with furtive looks to Brant. Roberts touched his shoulder. ‘C’mon sergeant, I’m going to buy you a drink.’
Madness more like
Nineteen-sixty-five. The Umpire had been a cricket sensation. As a schoolboy, he’d already been watched by the England selectors. Provision was made to ensure his talent was nurtured and developed. But…
If Albert of the ‘E’ crew was missing some vital pieces of human connection and born with a lack, then the Umpire was born with an extra dimension — a dimension of destruction. He liked to watch it burn. On the day of his first schoolboy accomplishments, he set fire to the pavilion. And got caught. His father beat him to a pulp and they put him away in a home for the seriously disturbed. They got that right. What they got wrong was releasing him. His first night home, his father took out all the press cuttings. All the stories of hope and triumph, then proceeded to whip him, ranting: ‘There’ll be no madness in this family.’
