‘No, sir — sorry sir. Won’t happen again.’
‘Let’s not make too much of it. If it happens again, you’ll be bundling homeys on Railton Road for years to come. Now piss off.’
He moved from behind his desk and contemplated his reflection in a half mirror. A photo of former England cricket captain Mike Atherton in one corner with the caption:
IT’S NOT CRICKET
Roberts was sixty-two and at full stance he looked imposing. Recently he found it more difficult to maintain. A sag whispered at his shoulders. It whispered ‘old’.
His body was muscular but it took work. More than he wanted to give. A full head of hair was steel grey and he felt the lure of the Grecian alternative — but not yet. Brown eyes that were never gentle and a Roman nose. Daily he said, ‘I hate that fuckin’ nose.’ A headbutt from a drunk had pushed it off-centre to give the effect of a botched nose job. According to his wife, his mouth was unremarkable till he spoke, then it was ugly. He got perverse joy from that.
Now he hit the intercom, barked: ‘Get me Falls.’
‘Ahm…
‘Are you deaf?’
‘Sorry, sir. I’m not sure where she’s at.’
‘Where she’s at! What is this? A bloody commune? You’re a policeman, go and find her. Go and find her now and don’t ever let me hear that hippy shit again.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Five minutes later a knock and Falls entered, straightening her tunic, crumbs floating to the floor. They both watched the descent. He said:
‘Picking from a rich man’s platter perhaps?’
She smiled. ‘Hardly, sir.’
‘I have a job for you.’
‘Yes, sir?’
He rummaged through his desk, produced a few pink tickets, flipped them towards her.
She said, ‘Dry-cleaning tickets?’
‘Well identified; collect them on your lunch hour, eh?’
She let them lie, said: ‘Hardly, sir — I mean, it’s not in my brief to be valet or something.’
He gave her a look of pure indignation.
‘Jeez, you don’t think I’ll collect then, do you? How would that look? Man of my rank poncing about a dry- cleaners?’
‘With all due respect, sir, I — ’
He cut her off.
‘If you want to stay on my good side, love, don’t bugger me about.’
She considered standing on her dignity, making a gesture for the sisterhood, telling him, with respect, to shove it, then thought, yeah sure.
And picked up the tickets, said: ‘I’ll need paying.’
‘Don’t we all, love — where’s Brant?’
Later: Roberts had just parked his car and was starting to walk when a man stepped out of the shadows. A big man. He bruised out of his track suit and all of it muscle.
He said: ‘I’m going to need your money, mate, and probably your watch if it’s not a piece of shit.’
Roberts, feeling so tired, said: ‘Would it help your decision to know I’m a copper?’
‘A bit, but not enough. I’ve been asking people for money all day, asking nice and they treated me like dirt. So, now it’s no more Mr Nice Guy. Hand it over, pal.’
‘Okay, as you can see, I’m no spring chicken, and fit? I’m fit for nowt, but I’ve a real mean streak. No doubt you’ll hurt me a lot but I promise you, I’ll hurt you fucking back.’
The man considered, stepped forward, then spat: ‘Ah bollocks, forget it. All right.’
‘Forget. No. I don’t think so. Get off my manor, pal, you’re too big to miss.’
After Roberts moved away, the man considered putting a brick through his windshield, or slash the tyres or some fuck. But that bastard would come after him. Oh yes, a relentless cold fuck. Best leave well enough alone.
He said: ‘You were lucky, mate.’
Who exactly he meant was unclear.
When Roberts got back home, he had to lean against the door. His legs turned to water and tiny tremors hit him. A voice asked: ‘Not having a turn are you, Dad?’
Sarah, his fifteen-year-old daughter, supposedly at boarding school, a very expensive one, in the coronary area. It didn’t so much drain his resources as blast a hole through them — wide and unstoppable. He tried for composure.
‘Whatcha doing home, not half term already?’
‘No. I got suspended.’
‘What? What on earth for? Got to get me a drink.’
He poured a sensible measure of Glenlivet, then added to it, took a heavy slug and glanced at his daughter. She was in that eternal moment of preciousness between girl and woman. She loved and loathed her dad in equal measure. He looked closer, said:
‘Good grief, are those hooks in your lips?’
‘It’s fashion, Dad.’
‘Bloody painful, I’d say. Is that why you’re home?’
‘Course not. Mum says not to tell you, I didn’t do nuffink.’
Roberts sighed: an ever-constant cloud of financial ruin hung over his head, just to teach her how to pronounce ‘nothing’. And she said it as if she’d submerged south of the river and never surfaced.
He picked up the phone while Sarah signalled ‘later’ and headed upstairs.
‘This is DI Roberts. Yeah, I’m home and a guy tried to mug me on my own doorstep. What? What is this? Did I apprehend him? Get me DS Brant and get a car over here to pick up this guy. He’s a huge white fella in a dirty green tracksuit. Let Brant deal with him. My address? You better be bloody joking, son.’ And he slammed the phone down.
As an earthquake of music began to throb from the roof, he muttered: ‘Right.’
Racing up the stairs, two at a time, like a demented thing: ‘Sarah! Sarah! What is that awful racket?’
‘It’s
‘Whatever it is, turn it down. Now!’
Sarah lay on her bed. Wondered, could she risk a toke? Better not, leastways till Mum got home.
‘He who hits first gets promoted’ (Detective Sergeant Brant)
Brant leant over the suspect, asked: ‘Have you ever had a puck in the throat?’ The suspect, a young white male, didn’t know the answer, but he knew the very question boded ill.
Brant put his hand to his forehead said: ‘Oh gosh, how unthinking of me. You probably don’t know what a puck is. It’s my Irish background, those words just hop in any old place. Let me enlighten you.’
The police constable standing by the door of the interview room shifted nervously. Brant knew and ignored him, said: ‘A puck is — ’ and lashed out with his closed fist to the man’s Adam’s apple. He went over backwards in his chair, clutching his throat. No sound other than the chair hitting.
Brant said: ‘That’s what it is. A demonstration is worth a hundred words, so my old mum always said — bless her.’
The man writhed on the floor as he fought to catch his breath. The constable made a move forward, said, ‘Really, sir, I — ’
‘Shut the fuck up.’ Brant righted the chair, said: ‘Take your time son, no hurry, no hurry at all. A few more
