The McDead

arsonist alone. Nearly killed, she’d lost the baby and almost her job.

DS Brant had forced her along to arrest a hit man. It had saved her job and restored some of her confidence. Not all, but definitely in the neighbourhood. After, he’d said, ‘You know Falls, you’re getting a mean look.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, a nastiness around the eyes.’

She couldn’t resist, said, ‘Like you, sergeant?’

He laughed, answered, ‘See what I mean? Yeah … like me and, if you’re real smart, you’ll work on it.’

Surprised, she asked, ‘Will it go away?’

‘Fuck no, you’ll get meaner.’

The Super put the biscuit to the side, said, ‘Gratification postponed is gratification doubled.’

Falls had a flurry of thoughts-Thank Christ he didn’t start on the biscuit. Yer pompous fart- all hedging on the insubordinate. She cautioned herself. Chill to chill out. Now the prize prick was flicking through her file adding sighs, tut-tuts, teeth clicking, every few pages. Finally, he sat back, said, ‘A checkered career to date.’

‘Yes sir.’

Now he was tapping a pen against his teeth, exclaimed, ‘And such promise, you have the potential. Oh yes.’

Falls thought, Yeah, I’m black and a woman.

He closed the file then, as if only now was the idea crystallising, said, ‘I’m going to take a chance on you Falls, eh.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘No doubt you’re familiar with the Clapham Rapist?’

Who wasn’t? A serial, he’d attacked six women, six black women. The lefties were kicking up a stink. Phrases such as ‘selective policing’ were surfacing.

He continued: ‘You’ll be living in a bedsit in Clapham, going to pubs, clubs, all the places this johnnie hunts.’

She tried to restrain herself but couldn’t, said, ‘A decoy?’

He gave a tolerant smile, said, ‘Not a term we’re keen on my girl, smacks of entrapment. We’ll have you covered all the way.’ Sure. ‘So, are you up to the job? I’ve picked you especially.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Thank you sir. Won’t let you down sir, etc.

Brown-nosing to screaming point.

‘Good, the desk sergeant has the details. PC McDonald will be assisting you … that’s all.’

She was just closing the door when he pounced on the club milk. Could hear him wolfing it as she moved away, muttered, ‘Hope it bloody chokes him.’

As Brant had said, ‘Getting meaner by the minute’.

The Greeks have a word for it

There’s a narrow street connecting the Walworth Road to the east entrance of The Elephant and Castle shopping centre. It has second-hand furniture shops, a bookies, a boarded-up off licence and a taverna. The taverna is called The Spirit of Athens. It’s a dump. But it does OK, and has a minor reputation for its bacon sarnies. A hint of kebab is added to the mix and the locals like it. Gives a taste of the exotic and disguises the bacon.

Culinary delight indeed.

The owner is named Spiro Zacharopoulos. He’s a snitch and, more to the point, he’s DS Brant’s snitch. Brant looked like a thug and he was real proud of that. The Metropolitan Police believed he was a thug and were deeply ashamed of him. He’d had some major fuck-ups in his career which ensured he’d not rise above the rank of sergeant. But a number of last moment high profile case solutions had saved his career. It was always thus, thin ice to the promised land.

A mix of ruthlessness and the luck of the Irish kept him in the game. Snitches were the lifeblood of police work. Brant knew this better than most. Now sitting at a table, he said to Spiro, ‘Jaysus, would it hurt to give the place a sweep?’

‘Ah Meester Brant, help is so … how you say … diskolo … difficult to get.’

‘By the look of this joint, it’s downright impossible. Couldn’t you get a brush?’

Spiro spoke perfect English but it was useful to play it down. Gave him the edge. He said, ‘Ah Meester Brant, you make a joke.’

Brant reached into his jacket, got a pack of Weights and a battered Zippo, lit up, exhaled, said, ‘When I make a joke boyo, you won’t be in any doubt about it.’

Spiro, playing the anxious-to-please role, went and got an ashtray. Written along the side was Ouzo-12. Brant looked at it, flicked his ash on the floor, said, ‘That’s going to make all the difference, eh? What’s the twelve for?’

Now Spiro could be the true Greek, hospitable friendly sly, said, ‘Ouziko Dodika.’

‘Which tells me what exactly? Doesn’t tell me shit pal.’

‘Wait … wait one moment.’ He got up, crossed to the bar and busied himself. Five minutes on he’s back with glasses, a bottle, snacks on plates and a jug of water, says, ‘Let me demonstrate.’ Pours the ouzo, adds water and it becomes the colour of window cleaner, nods to the snacks, explains, ‘These are meze, we eat, we drink, like we’re in Greece.’

The ‘snacks’ consisted of

two Ritz crackers,

two slices of ‘rubber’,

two thin wedges of cheese.

Brant stared, then: ‘Jaysus, you broke the bank with all this grub … what’s the rubber bits?’

‘Octopu.’

‘I can only hope you’re kidding. Tell you what, I’ll feast on the others-you have the condoms.’

He took his glass and before he drank, Spiro said, ‘Aspro pato.’

‘Whatever.’ Knocked it back, gasped and said, ‘Paint off a fucking gate…

‘You like?’

Brant wiped his mouth, bit on a stale cracker, said, ‘Let’s cut the crap, boyo, and drop the Greek lesson … OK? You came to me pal offering yer help if I could help you with some problems. I delivered, you haven’t been shut down so, let’s hear it. You’re a snitch, so snitch.’

Now Spiro was the offended party, whined, ‘Meester Brant, ah … I thought we were friends. Friends do each other a leetle favour.’

He was into it now and would have built to operatic outrage but Brant leant over, gave him an almighty wallop to the side of the head, said:

‘You’re not paying attention, Costos.’

‘It’s Spiro.’

‘See, now you’re listening. Who’s the main player these days?’

The main player had been Bill Preston. He was on sabbatical and various villains were vying for position. Spiro glanced round the empty restaurant, then said, ‘Tommy Logan. Like you, he is Irish, I think, but he has the mind of a Colombian.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘Without mercy, no … how you say…? boundaries … is why he is top because he will do anything.’

‘Well now, I’d like to meet the bold Logan.’

‘Mister Brant, be careful, this man is crazy. He has no respect for police or for anybody.’

Brant poured some ouzo, said, ‘Let’s have some more turpentine, drink to Tommy Logan.’

‘Ah, you begin to like the ouzo.’

Brant leant over and Spiro cowered, but the sergeant only put his arm round the Greek’s shoulder, squeezed,