‘The what?’
‘You remember the Eurythmics, thin chick who looked like a faded Bowie and a hippy guy named Dave Stewart. Made fuckin’ shitpiles of money, that’s yer Paradise Syndrome right there.’
‘Lucky sod, I could do with a blast of such depression.’
They watched the huge line of cars and Brant said: ‘Me, I’d have to put one song to that funeral.’
‘What’s that then?’
‘“Brothers in Arms”, no contest.’
Brant began to scratch at his chest and Roberts watched, then said: ‘That’s it, you’re wearing a Met Vest. I thought you’d got fat.’
They were knife- and bullet-proof items issued to 30,000 officers. Needless to say, they hadn’t come cheap and they didn’t fit under the regulation shirts. Every officer had an issue of shirts and all of them had to be replaced.
It amused Roberts no end and he slipped into a near-pleasant mood. He reminisced: ‘The other night, Tom, when we had a few drinks, it was a bit of an eye opener.’
A now surly Brant tore at the vest, saying: ‘Bloody things. What? Oh, the other night, yes, I suppose. Me, though, when I go for a few bevvies, I hope it’s going to be a leg opener. I’m never wearing these vests again.’
A TV helicopter hovered above and the cameraman zoomed in on Roberts and Brant. The pilot asked: ‘Anything?’
‘Naw, just a couple of wankers.’
The discarded Met Vest lay on the roof of the cathedral, like a prayer that wasn’t said.
The notice read:
‘You sure have some odd thought processes, Sergeant. I dunno if that’s because yer Irish, a policeman or a weird bastard.’
A light hit Brant’s eyes. ‘Jeez Guv, I’ve had a brainwave.’
‘Yeah? You know who the Umpire is?’
‘Now listen, see that fancy dress? Here’s something… Roberts listened to Brant’s idea then exchanged:
‘I couldn’t… good Lord, sergeant, I mean, they’d think we were taking the piss.’
‘Ahm, c’mon Guv, it’s a wicked notion, you know it is, it’s downright — what’s the word you like — Nora?’
‘Noir. Yeah, it is a bit, lemme have a think on it.’
‘Nice one, Guv. You’ll see, it’ll be a gas.’
‘Mmm.’
Law 42: Unfair Play. The Umpires are the sole judges of fair and unfair play
Nobody listens to Mantovani, I mean, get real. Not even Mantovani listens much anymore. He’s been consigned to the fifties rack and labelled miscellaneous.
But Graham Norman did, and all the time. His wife had given up joking about it and his kids just prayed the bastard never made it to CD. As captain of the England cricket team, Graham could indulge his whims.
He’d attended an indifferent public school, but ambition burned like the old values. He had a small talent and an unending thirst for practice, plus he knew how to please, especially the press. Early on, he sought them out, and when his ascent began, he took them along. He took up golf to cash in on his name link with Greg Norman. One of his proudest moments was immortalised in a framed photo of them together, with the caption ‘Two greats’.
He glanced round his study and felt near satisfied. For a south-east London boy, he’d come all the way. As the strains of Mantovani reached a feeble peak, his wife peered round the door, said: ‘For heaven’s sake, turn it down. I declare they’ll be playing him at your funeral.’
Words that would all too soon come to taunt and torment her.
As Brant left the station, a TV reporter approached.
‘DS Brant?’
‘Who’s askin’?’
‘I’m Mulligan, from Channel 5. I’ve been an admirer since you solved the Rilke case.’
Brant guffawed and the reporter stepped back. His hand behind his back, he signalled the cameraman to roll it.
‘I said something funny, DS?’
‘Mr Mulligan. No relation to the Gold Cup winner, I suppose?’
‘I’d like to ask your views on the cricket killings.’
‘No comment, boyo, not my case.’
But off the record, what sort of man do you think is behind this?’
‘A nutter. One of those bed wetters. Hey, are you filming?’
‘Thank you, Detective Sergeant Brant.’
It aired at prime time and among the viewers was the Umpire. The very next day he began to follow Brant. It wasn’t in his plan yet to kill policemen, but his rage was such that he felt compelled. Two days later he was at vigil outside Brant’s flat when the sergeant emerged with a very mangy dog on a battered leash.
Watching them, he could see the mutual affection. It looked as if someone had attempted to shear the animal. But even the Umpire could sense they made a pair, odd and bizarre but suited. He knew then how to hurt the policeman. Down the street, the dog’s heart leapt as his idol said: ‘C’mon Meyer, I think it’s saveloy and chips for two, eh? Whatcha fink, extra portions? Yeah, me ’n’ all.’
It had happened like this: Brant had parked his car on double yellow lines. A traffic warden materialised out of the sewer. Had the book open, was already writing.
Brant flashed his warrant card, said: ‘Get a real job, Adolf.’
As the warden slunk back to his yellow lair, Brant headed for his flat. A howl of pure anguish pierced his skull and he whirled round, muttering: ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what is that?’
An alley beside Brant’s building seemed to be the source. There as another howl of such pain that he felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He moved faster.
A man with a pick-axe was beating a dog with slow, measured intent. Brant shouted: ‘Oi, you!’
The man turned, a smile on his face. Well-dressed in a casual way, a knock-down Armani jacket, subdesigned jeans, Nikes. About fifty, he looked like your friendly uncle. Well, your friendly uncle with a pick-axe handle. He said: ‘You want some of this, is that it?’
‘Yes please,’ said Brant, and pushed him.
The pick-axe handle went high and to the right. Brant flinched, stepped to the left and dealt two rapid power punches to the kidney. That’s all she wrote.
Brant bent down, rummaged in the man’s jacket, extracted a wallet, flipped it open. Read: ‘Swan’, looked at the man, then added, ‘Sorry, MISTER fuckin’ Swan. Says so right here. See me boyo I’ve a white shirt, but I’ve a blue collar soul. That means I like dogs.’
As the man’s pain eased, his attitude returned and he smirked: ‘I’ll have the police on you mate.’
‘I am the bloody police, and this — ’ he took a wedge of notes from the wallet ‘- is for the RSPCA.’
Brant went over to the dog and said gently: ‘Can you walk boy?’ Clumps of hair had been torn from the creature, and there was a large bald patch. Brant stroked him softly, said: ‘You’re the spit of Meyer Mayer, as bald as an egg.’
Brant was chewing on a slice of pizza, the rest he’d hand fed to Meyer. He was saying: ‘I’m a man in his eens. No, not teens, listen up fella, it’s caff-eine, nicot-ine, non-prot-een that’s made a man of me. You only need to remember one thing about pizza: bite the delivery boy’s ankles. Yeah, like Norman Hunter in his day. There was a
