He put up his hand, ‘Whoa, we’re coppers-morality has no place in it.’
‘But, sir-’
He quoted, ‘If a mere code of ethics could keep it legal, there’d be no need of us. I don’t give advice but lemme say this …
‘I don’t know if I can, sir.’
He stood up, said, ‘You’ve no choice. If there’s anything to be resolved here, it’s why you don’t appreciate the sergeant who saved
Walked away.
‘So he knows … God, why am I surprised?’
Roberts got the call to the Super’s office. No invitation to sit down, right to it.
‘You’re to lay off Tommy Logan.’
‘There’s a highly sensitive investigation underway. You’d only jeopardise months of work.’
‘Are you aware that he killed my brother?’
‘Are
Roberts felt reckless, dangerously so, said, ‘I don’t get it, Logan’s not a Mason.’
The Super was up, spitting, ‘I don’t think I like your inference, you’d be wise to proceed with great care.’
Roberts didn’t even hear him, was trying to put it together, then, ‘Wait a mo! It’s his bloody solicitor, that scumbag Harry Something. Christ yeah, he’s definitely in the lodge.’
‘That will be all Chief Inspector. I’m going to overlook your outburst, put it down to your grief. You can go.’
Roberts pulled himself together, prepared to leave. The Super added, ‘It would be a conflict of interest to have you on a family case.’
‘With all due respect, that’s bollocks … sir.’
Moving on
Sarah Cohen was Rosie’s replacement. On her arrival at the station, the desk sergeant said, ‘Cohen? A bloody Yid.’ She now knew what to expect. With curly brown hair, brown eyes and a snub nose, she was half-ways pretty. Like any new person, the voice in her head roared:
Run
Get
The
Fuck
Out
Now
Before…
Burning with zeal, she had done a year of Social Science. That burnt out. On a whim, she’d applied to the police. Here she was, scared witless. The desk sergeant asked, ‘What would you like to do today?’
She’d been about to respond, ‘A little light traffic to start and home early.’
The desk sergeant was grinning, said, ‘How does the North Peckham Estate sound?’
Sounded awful is what. Before she made a total fool of herself, a voice said, ‘Lay off her, Dennis.’
Brant. He nodded at Dennis, said, ‘He likes to fuck with new people. I need a WPC … let’s go.’ And he was already moving.
The desk sergeant offered, ‘Outta the frying pan…
Sarah had hoped for a nice cup of tea to begin. She was up all night pressing her uniform. Brant was climbing into a battered Volvo, asked, ‘Wanna drive?’
‘Ahm, no thank you.’
A huge smile and he said, ‘I love fuckin’ manners.’
Falls was getting obsessed with Brant and didn’t try to fight that. It stopped her thinking of Rosie which she couldn’t get a handle on.
In the pub one time, they’d all been celebrating. A little tipsy, she asked him, ‘How come you’ve never come on to me?’
‘What?’
He was mid-Cornish pasty and stared.
‘You’ve never hit on me. All the times we’ve been thrown together. Am I not yer type?’
He looked at the pie, said, ‘Ever notice with these things, you start off cold. Lulls you into a false sense of security and then the middle is burning, leaps to the roof of yer mouth and clings?’
She laughed, asked, ‘Is that a metaphor?’
He dumped the remains on the floor, said, ‘Naw, it’s just a pasty. But naw, yer not my type.’
More bothered than she would have anticipated, she got silly, said, ‘Is it a
‘I like black fine as long as they’re bimbos.’
‘Oh come on sarge, I don’t buy that.’
He grabbed a pint, drank half, belched, said ‘I have no problem with women talking. Hell, it punctuates the time. What I hate is women thinking they’ve something to say.’
She was horrified, let it show, then, ‘That’s the most chauvinistic thing I’ve ever heard.’
He drained the glass, said, ‘I’ve got a question…
‘Go ahead.’
‘When this shindig’s over, will you let me jump you?’
She physically drew back. ‘How
‘See … you’re a good cop, Falls, and not bad looking. But yer not a babe. You’d want to talk after we’d done it. Me, I want me kip, so I’m off, grab a bimbo, whisper sweet shite, then wham, bam, and lock the door on yer way out.’
Then he was gone. For the first time in her life she lamented not being a babe.
Sarah Cohen and Brant pulled to a stop outside McDonald’s on the Walworth Road. The radio was squawking gibberish. Brant seemed to comprehend it, said, ‘We’re on it.’
Turned to Sarah, said, ‘It’s a couple of drunks, my only suggestion is, don’t get too close.’
Sarah didn’t answer. She intended getting a hands-on approach from day one-being a real police person.
To the left, as you enter McDonald’s, there’s a children’s area. With toadstools for seats and other such furnishings to put the children at ease. On the wall is a portrait of Ronald McDonald, the spit of John Gacy. Not so much a haven for little people as a creation by little-minded people. A man and a woman were holed up there, shouting obscenities and hurling burgers at the staff.
Brant said, ‘Pissed as parrots.’
Sarah asked, ‘What’s the strategy, sir?’
‘I’m gonna get some doughnuts, want one?’ And he headed for the counter.
Sarah felt this was her window, began to approach the couple, said, ‘I say.’
Thought, Oh God, I sound like a school girl. Get some street in there.
The woman had been nodding, almost out of it, then her head snapped up, spotted Sarah, called, ‘C’mere love.’
Sarah did. The woman struggled to her feet and threw up over Sarah.
Brant came with coffee and doughnuts, asked, ‘Jelly or sugared?’
Took a look at her, said, ‘Now, that’s sick.’
Peered closer, added, ‘I spot pepperoni, it’s a bastard to keep down, here hold these.’
