Morden 3 min Kennington 4 min
Then he saw what she was casing, the chocolate machine. Anthony could quote: ‘Oh sweet temptation’ and ‘Thrice you shall betray me’.
Now the nun stopped and rooted in her habit, her face flushed with expectation. Coins were ‘thunked’ in and a calculated selection made. Cadbury’s Turkish Delight. A classic. The handle was pulled and the nun moved in for the kill. Anthony watched her face, ‘un-lined, unblemished’. She could be sixteen or sixty. Definitely from the Philippines, who were producing a bumper crop of nuns for the nineties.
One of Anthony’s team-mates had said recently: ‘Hell is Imelda Marcos singing “Amazing Grace”.’
No chocolate:
The train could be heard approaching and Anthony could see tears in the nun’s eyes. He moved with the grace he kept for Lords, and one, two, open-palmed he hit the machine.
The Turkish Delight popped out. With a flourish, he presented her with her prize. The nun was beaming, her face aglow, and she said: ‘God be praised.’
He nodded gravely, added: ‘Veritas.’
After Anthony Heaton’s murder, the nun would gaze at his photo in the paper and hope they’d given him the last rites. In her breviary, beside his snap, was a neatly folded chocolate wrapper, smooth as a silent prayer.
David Eddings was one of the England batsmen. He was having a bad morning. His wife had issued an ultimatum.
‘You go on tour and I’m history.’
He hadn’t handled it well, his reply being: ‘I’ll help you pack.’
The toaster had short-circuited and there was no bloody orange. Losing it, he shouted: ‘Where’s my juice?’
From upstairs the sound of slamming doors, suitcases, and: ‘That’s what the
Said paper had been sniping at his age. The doorbell rang and he shouted again: ‘Are you going to get that?’
‘Well I doubt it will answer itself, darling.’
A hiss underlined the endearment. A yeah, he’d definitely heard a sss… Striding to the door, muttering: ‘This flaming better be good.’
He pulled it open. A postman, not their usual. Postbag held in front of his chest, he said: ‘Batsman leaving the field.’
‘What?’
And coming out of the bag was a barrel of a gun. Now the postman intoned: ‘I am the Umpire. When a batsman has left the field or retired and is unable to return owing to illness or injury, he is to be recorded as “retired, not out”.’
And he shot David Eddings in the face.
Weights…
When the call on the shooting came through, Brant was, as usual, missing. He’d left his bleeper on the desk. There it shrilled till a passing sergeant dropped it in the bin.
Brant was in the canteen, smoking a Player’s Weight. These were only available in a tobacconist off Bond Street, on a shelf with Sobranies, Woodbines and snuff: the forgotten stimulants of a Jack the Ripper-era London. Brant had an arrangement with the owner — ‘I’ll keep an eye on the premises.’ There had been five break-ins since his pledge. Unfazed, he asked: ‘Did they get my Weights?’
‘No.’
‘See: no taste, no worries.’
He took a deep drag now. As the powerful nicotine blasted across his lungs, he gasped: ‘Jaysus.’
A radio was blaring Michael Bolton and he muttered: ‘Shut up, yah whining wanker — put a bloody sock in it.’ And chanced another draw of the cigarette. In unison, if not in harmony, a WPC gave a series of short, sharp coughs. Brant’s head came up like a setter.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘S-sorry sarge, the WPC stammered, ‘I’ve got a strep throat — nothing will shift it.’
He gave a professional smile. It’s in the manual and has absolutely no relation to warmth. He said: ‘There is one sure cure.’
The WPC was surprised. New to the force, she’d heard he was an animal but maybe she’d be the very person to bring out his feminine side. Show he was gentle, caring and compassionate and hey — he wasn’t at all bad looking — a bit rough but she could change that. Encouraged, she asked: ‘What’s it called?’
‘C-men.’
‘C-what?’
‘C-men. It’s got to be delivered orally. I’m off at four, I could come round, let you have it.’
A moment before it clicked. As the words took shape on her lips, she felt bile in her stomach. Jumping to her feet she said: ‘You… animal!’ And ran out, leaving three-quarters of her apple danish. He reached over, broke a wedge off and popped it in his mouth, went ‘mmm,’ and muttered: ‘Women? Go figure.’
The duty sergeant put his head round the door and said: ‘Brant, all hell’s broken loose, better get outta here.’
‘Another hanging, I hope.’ He snatched up the remains of the danish and between bites managed to hum a bar of Michael Bolton.
The fucking rooms at the CA were a rampage of luxury: Wet bar, silk sheets, soft to softest furnishings. Jason was twelve, or so it seemed to Fiona. But the body was a healthy twentysomething. He’d lightly oiled his torso and it made his tan glow. He was dressed only in black shiny briefs. Fiona couldn’t keep her eyes off it. She had a variety of witty lines to break the ice but they translated as ‘ah.’ Jason smiled — teeth that shouted ‘capped glory’. He said: ‘What’s your pleasure?’
Alas, he tried for husky but Peckham and tight undies played havoc. Fiona went up to him, said: ‘Shush. Shh… She put her hand in his knickers, gasped: ‘Oh God!’, fell to her knees and took him in her mouth. Then, breaking off, she said: ‘Jason, I want you to fuck me till I can’t walk but I don’t want you to speak, not now — not ever. Can you do that?’
He could and he did.
Her husband, meanwhile, was also being fucked, but over, by the Chief Super, the press and Mrs David Eddings.
By the time Brant reached him, he was in the coronary zone, barked: ‘Been on vacation, have you?’
‘Sorry, Guv, was chasing down leads on the “E”.’
‘The what?’
‘“E”, sir — E for enough. The hanging job, or did it slip your mind? You’ve a lot on, I suppose.’
Through a barrage of obscenities, Roberts outlined the cricket murder. Brant looked thoughtful, then said: ‘Bit of a sticky wicket what?’
‘You know cricket?’
‘That’s it, Guv — only the one expression, I have to ration it.’
‘Well, you’re about to get an education. I shall personally ensure you get a crash course. Don’t the Irish play?’
Brant tried to look deprived. It made him Satanic.
‘Just hurling I’m afraid.’
‘What’s that then?’
‘A cross between hockey and murder.’
‘Wonderful, I’ve a thick Paddy to help me. Get down to the incident room, it should be set up by now.’
‘And… er, where’s that, Guv?’
