Brant went to ‘records’, gave Shelley his best smile. She wasn’t buying, least not right away, said, ‘You want something?’
‘To take you dancing.’
‘Yeah … sure.’
‘Honest, the Galtimore on a Saturday night, all of Ireland and oceans of sweat and porter.’
‘How could a girl resist … whatcha want?’
‘A security guard with Marks and Spencer, name of Watson. He’s at their flagship. You know what that is?’
‘Sure, Marble Arch.’
‘Jeez, everyone knows it, eh?’
‘Do you want the straight CV, or do I dig?’
‘Dig please.’
While he was waiting he lit a cigarette. Shelley looked at the profusion of NO SMOKING notices but said nothing. Ten minutes later, she said, ‘Gotcha.’
Got a printout, showed it to Brant. He said, ‘Looks OK.’
‘Take a look at 1985.’
‘Ah.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Thanks, Shelley, I’ll remember you in my prayers.’
‘Is that a threat or a promise?’
Brant enjoyed his excursions to the West End. To be in a part of England no longer English … pity the parking was such a bitch. Finally he got a space off the Tottenham Court Road end of Oxford Street and hiked to Marble Arch. His hangover was crying out to be fed but he decided to wait. The crankiness might help his endeavour.
At the entrance to M amp;S was, as luck would have it, a security guard. Tan uniform, tan teeth. Brant flashed the warrant card, asked, ‘Where might I find Mr Watson?’
‘He’ll be in the basement, foodstuffs are his manor.’
‘All right is he?’
The guy looked at Brant, the look that yells, ‘Do me a favour pal,’ but said, ‘He’s a supervisor.’
‘All right as a supervisor is he?’
‘I couldn’t say, I only know him on a professional basis.’
Brant had an overwhelming desire to kick the guy in the balls, but said, ‘Don’t give much away do ya, boyo?’
The guard put a hand on Brant’s arm, moved him slightly to the left, said, ‘You’re impeding free access.’
‘God forbid I should do that. Tell you what though, do you have a good friend?’
‘What?’
‘Cos if you put a hand on me again you’ll need a good friend to extract it from yer hole. No carry on, no slouching.’
In the basement, Brant clocked him instantly. No uniform but eyes that never saw civilians. He was standing near the fire door. Brant let him see his approach. Nice and easy, loose, asked, ‘Mr Watson?’
‘Yeah.’
Oh lots of hard. This was a guy who doled
Deep sigh. Like, not really but for a brother in arms, only don’t lean on it. Said, ‘Come to my office in back.’
It was a broom closet but if he wanted to call it that, be my guest. There was one swivel chair and a small desk. He sat, put his feet up, said, ‘Shoot.’
You knew he’d rehearsed it a thousand times. Brant could play, said, ‘You got a guy on shoplifting a few weeks back.’
Watson sneered ‘Buddy, I get hundreds every week.’
‘Of course, this was literally a tin o’ beans.’
Now Watson’s eyes lit up, ‘Yeah, he freakin’ cried, can yah believe it? Big baby.’
Brant let him savour, then, ‘Can you let it slide?’
Guffaw.
‘In yer dreams, buddy.’
Brant was peaking, couldn’t believe his good fortune. Who could have prophesied such a horse’s ass? Decided to let the rope out a few more inches, said, ‘As a brother officer, I’m asking for a bit o’ slack. Doesn’t hurt to have a friend in The Met.’
Watson was off on it, power to full octane, said, ‘No way, Jose.’
Brant hung his head, and Watson, flying, said, ‘Don’t do the crime if…
Before he could finish, Brant was roaring:
‘Shudd-up, yah asshole, and get yer feet off the desk…
Brant leant over, nose to nose, said, ‘I tried to do it the easy way. But, oh no, Mister Bust-Yer-Chops gets all hot.’
Watson blustered, tried to get the reins back, ‘You’ve got nothing on me.’
‘Does M amp;S employ criminals?’
‘What … of course not!’
Brant took the paper from his jacket, slapped it on the table, said, ‘I draw yer attention to 1985.’
Watson looked, then, ‘You’ve no right to that, it’s not on my application form.’
Realising what he said, he shut down.
Brant read:
‘1985 — Watson — D amp;D — Suspended. They see this, they’ll bump yer ass from here to the dole queue.’
Watson said, ‘If I could … make it right with the other thing, you’ll go away?’
‘Well, I’ll call in now and again, see you’re not slacking.’
Resigned, Watson said, ‘The perp’s name again?’
‘Perp?’
‘You know … the perpetrator… He looked up, anxious to please, said, ‘The alleged … now cleared … person’s name?’
‘Paul Johnson.’
Brant threw his eyes round the closet, turned to leave.
Watson offered, ‘I was only doing my job.’
‘Naw … you’re a vicious little shit. Stay outta south-east London.’
Whining now, ‘Me old Mum lives there.’
‘Move her.’
Brant rang Mary, said, ‘It’s Brant.’
‘Oh hello, Tom.’
‘It’s done.’
‘What? Oh my God, Paul … Paul will want to thank you.’
‘No need.’
‘Tom, maybe we could all meet, have a meal, our treat?’
‘C’mon Mary.’
‘Oh.’
‘Goodbye then.’
‘Tom … Tom if ever we can…
But Brant had rung off.
Mary knew she should be elated but what she felt was a sense of let-down, a whisper of sadness.
