better than most.’ He flopped down on the couch, said: ‘Jay-sus, I need some sleep. Get the light would you?’ And within minutes he was snoring. She got a blanket from her bed and as she put it over him she saw the gun in his waistband. Afraid he’d do damage, she reached for it, only to have her wrist seized. He said: ‘Don’t handle my weapon.’
As she tried to regain her sleep, she wished: ‘Hope he shoots his balls off.’
Falls prided herself on the flat being a ‘smoke free zone’. Even her old dad, no matter how pissed, never had the bottle to light his ‘home-mades’ there. Now she woke to the stench of nicotine, clouds of it hung in the air. Storming out to the living room, she found Brant wrapped in her best towel, a cigarette dangling on his lips. He said: ‘Breakfast’s made. Well, sort of. I’ve boiled the water. Whatcha fancy, coffee all right?’
‘No thank you, I’m a tea drinker.’
As she went into the kitchen, he observed: ‘Jay-sus, you’ve got a big arse, haven’t you?’
The kitchen was a ruin. Used cups, stained teatowels, opened jars left everywhere. He strolled in after her, asked: ‘How’d it go then?’
‘What?’
‘The funeral.’
‘Oh. Great. No, I mean OK, it was small.’
‘He was a small man, eh?’
She glared at him: ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’
‘Did Roberts go?’
‘Yes, him and Mrs Roberts.’
‘Ah, the lovely Fiona. I could ride that.’
She slammed a cup on the sink, said:
‘Really, Sergeant. Are you trying to be deliberately offensive?’ He gave a look of near-innocence.
‘Me? Listen babe, don’t get yer knickers in a twist, this is my good side.’
She looked at him with distaste, said: ‘Your chin is bleeding.’
He wiped at it with an end of the towel, her favourite white fluffy one, said: ‘Them lady razors, near tore the face offa me.’
Another item for the bin, she sighed. He stood up, said: ‘I need to ask your… co-operation.’
‘Oh?’
‘If certain items — shall we say information — about the big cases, arrive, I’d appreciate a nod before it gets to Roberts.’
‘I don’t know, Sarge, I mean…
‘C’mon Falls. I’m not asking much. He’ll be informed. Eventually.’ Without another word, he went into the sitting room, dressed, and presented himself, asking: ‘How do I look?’
‘Er…
‘Yeah, I thought so. I’ve got to go chat to a junkie.’
She felt she’d been a tad cold, nay harsh, and tried to pull back a bit. In the hall, she said in a soft voice: ‘Sarge, thanks for not, you know, trying it on.’
‘Hey, I don’t jump the help, OK.’
Roberts had watched a documentary on Francis Bacon. He especially liked Bacon’s cry when he entered a club in Soho: ‘Champagne for my real friends. Real pain for my sham friends’. He was about to experience some major pain himself. The Chief Super was having more than a piece of Roberts’ hide and kept repeating: ‘I’m not the type to say “I told you so”.’
He was crowing over the ‘solution’ to the cricket murder. Roberts was seething, said quietly: ‘Oh, it’s been solved?’
‘Don’t take that tone with me, laddie. It’s solved as far as we’re concerned.’
Roberts wanted to shout: ‘Fuck you, sir, fuck the brass and the chain of command and the politicians.’ But he said: ‘If you say so, sir.’
‘I do say so. Our American cousins talk about bottom feeders. Are you cognizant with it?’
‘Bottom of the shit pile, sir, would that be close?’
‘Brant, now he’s a good example. Look here.’ And he threw a document across the desk, said: ‘The yard have been on to me. Your precious Detective Sergeant is accused of bribe-taking by a Mr Patel, of intimidation by a tobacconist in the West End, of brutality by an accused rapist, of freebies by a pizza company… the list goes on.’
Roberts barely glanced at it, said: ‘Nickel and dime. He’s a good copper.’
‘He’s finished, that’s what he is. I doubt even a cream arrest could save him.’
‘That’s white, sir. A White Arrest.’
‘Are you sure? Well, I want to ensure he doesn’t pull off one of those. So you’re back in charge of the vigilante business. See it’s put to bed quickly.’
‘Put to bed, sir?’
‘Get on with it, and I’ll remind you of thin ice yourself, questions have been asked before.’
With that he was dismissed. Outside he ran his finger along the rim of his ear. A passing WPC asked: ‘All right, sir, your ear I mean?’
‘Oh yeah, I’ve just had a flea put in it.’
The law of holes: when you’re in one, don’t dig
All hell erupted at the station as the news of the murder broke. The Super charged down the corridor, barged into Roberts’ office, roared: ‘You’re in for it now, laddy, there’s been another one.’
Roberts wanted to say, ‘I told you so’, but instead came running, said: ‘Someone surprise me, tell me Brant is here and reachable.’ Nobody surprised him.
The down-scaled ‘U’ incident room was activated and Roberts was given the details of the killing. He asked: ‘Any witnesses?’
‘No, sir.’
‘The weapon?’
‘A crossbow, Guv.’
‘Bloody hell. Wait until the press get wind of this.’
Silence.
‘What, they’re on to it already?’
‘Sorry, Guv.’
‘Holy shit, we’re fucked. So no chance of containment, the ol’ damage limitation?’
Many heads shook. Negative all the way.
Roberts sat, said: ‘Isn’t there any good news?’
Falls tried to lighten the mood, said: ‘Well, we’ve got a shoplifter in an interview room.’
He turned his full gaze to her. He spoke slowly: ‘That’s some sort of levity, I gather. How about this, WPC! Hop lightly to yer plod feet, go interview them and get out of my bloody sight!’
Roberts had thus made two mistakes. The first was not seeing the shoplifter. The second was alienating the hitherto loyal Falls.
‘Ashen was the way I felt when shunned by people I had justified. Didn’t all that much really warrant grief.’ The Umpire
The Umpire’s father had adorned the house with framed portraits of cricket’s greatest. A who’s-who of the best. He’d point to them and shout: ‘You could have been better than any of them, but oh no, you’re a namby pamby, a mummy’s boy. You’ll never hold a light to these, these giants.’ Light, a light to light. He looked on it like a
