And she was, kind of.
Roberts got the call before six. ‘Chief Inspector Roberts, is that you?’
‘Yeah.’
This is Governor Brady, over Pentonville.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘I have a chappie on B wing, might be of interest to you.’
‘Why?’
‘You are still in charge of the Umpire investigation, aren’t you?’ A note of petulance crept in as he added: ‘I mean you are interested in solving the cricket business?’
‘Of course, absolutely. I’m sorry, it’s been a long day.’
‘Try a day in the Ville sometime.’
Roberts wanted to shout: ‘Get on with it, fuckhead,’ but he knew the butter approach was vital, and with a trowel, said: ‘You do a terrific job there, Governor, it can’t be easy.’
‘That’s for sure.’
‘So, this man you’ve got, you think he might be our boy?’
‘He says he is.’
‘Oh.’
‘Came in yesterday on a GBH. We had to stick him on B because of his psychotic behaviour.’
‘Might I come see?’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
When Roberts put down the phone, he didn’t feel any hope. They were up to their asses in Umpires, all nutters and all bogus. But he’d have to check it out.
As Brant parked the car, he said: ‘This Volvo is like my ex.’
‘Yes?’
‘Too big and too heavy.’
‘Gosh, I wonder why she left you.’
The maitre d’ made a fuss of them, placed them at the best table, said: ‘Always glad to be of service to our police.’
Fiona sighed. The restaurant was near full and a hum of conversation carried. Two huge menus were brought. She said: ‘You order.’
‘Okey-dokey.’
A young waiter danced over and gave them a smile of dazzling fellowship. Brant asked: ‘What’s the joke, pal?’
‘Jeez, another wop. Give us a minute, will yer?’ A less hearty withdrawal from the waiter. Fiona said: ‘You have such magnetism.’
‘That’s me all right.’ Then he clicked his fingers, said: ‘Yo, Placedo!’ And ordered thus: starters, prawn cocktails; main, marinated Tweed salmon with cucumber salad and a pepper steak, roast and jacket potatoes; dessert, pecan sponge pie with marmalade ice-cream; wine, three bottles of Chardonnay.
The waiter looked astonished and Brant said: ‘Hey wake up, Guiseppe, it won’t come on its own.’
Fiona didn’t know what to say said: ‘I dunno what to say.’
‘Yer man, light on his feet I’d say.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘An arse bandit, one of them pillow biters.’
‘Oh God.’
The food began to arrive, and the first bottle of wine. Brant poured freely, raised his glass, said: ‘A toast.’
‘Good heavens.’
‘That too.’
She was glad of the alcohol and drank full, asked: ‘Do you hate my husband so much?’
‘What?’
‘You must do. I mean, all this.’
‘He’s a good copper and straight. This isn’t to do with him.’
‘Why, then? Surely it’s not just a fuck.’
He winced at her obscenity, put his glass down slowly, then said: ‘It’s about class. I never had none. You have it. I thought it might rub off.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘You wouldn’t kill me in cold blood, would you?’ ‘No, I’ll let you warm up a little.’ Paul Guilfoyle and James Cagney, White Heat
He spooned the prawn cocktail as if it contained secrets, then looked her straight in the eye, began: ‘I think I was born angry and there was plenty to be pissed about. We had nowt. Then I became a copper and guess what?’ She hadn’t a clue but he wasn’t expecting an answer, continued: ‘I mellowed ’cos I got respect at last. It felt like I was somebody. Me and Mike Johnson. He was me best mate, Mickey, bought the act even more than I did. Believed yer public could give a toss about us. One night he went to sort out a domestic, usual shit, old man beating the bejaysus out of his missus. Mickey got him up against the wall, we were putting the cuffs on him, when the wife laid him out with a rolling pin.’ Brant laughed out loud, heads turned, he repeated: ‘A bloody rolling pin, like a bad joke.’
‘Was he hurt?’
‘He was after they castrated him.’
Fiona dropped her spoon, said: ‘Oh, good grief.’
‘Good don’t come into it. See, you gotta let ’em see you’re the most brutal fuckin’ thing they’ve ever seen. They come quiet then.’ Brant was deep in memory, even his wine was neglected.
‘My missus. I loved her but I couldn’t let ‘er know. Couldn’t go soft, know what I mean? Else I’d end up singing soprano like old Mickey.’
Whatever Fiona might have said, could have said, was averted. Brant’s bleeper went off, he said: ‘Fuck,’ and went to use the phone. A few moments later, he was back. ‘There’s heat going on in Brixton, I gotta go.’
‘Oh.’
He rummaged in his pockets, dumped a pile of notes on the table, said: ‘I’ve called a cab for you, you stay, finish the grub,’ and then he was gone. Fiona wanted to weep. For whom or why, she wasn’t sure, but a sadness of infinity had shrouded her heart.
As Brant approached the car, his mind was in a swirl of pain through memory. He’d let his guard down, and now he struggled to regain the level of aggression that was habitual. As a mantra, he mouthed Jack Nicholson’s line from
It worked. The area of vulnerability began to freeze over, and the smile, slick in its satanic knowledge, began to form. He said: ‘I’m cookin’ now, mister.’ And he was. As the Volvo lurched towards south-east London, Nicholson’s lines fired on: ‘You come down here in your faggoty white uniforms, flash a badge and expect me to salute.’
Last train to Clarkesville
As Roberts was resigning himself to a haul to Pentonville, the phone rung again. He considered ignoring it,
