him.
Next, as a rank outsider, was Porter Nash because in his Kensington days, he’d dished out personal justice to a paedophile.
Falls was not seriously considered at first but, over time, speculation and rumour had moved her to top of the list.
Number one with a bullet.
Sergeant Brant had long been the bete noire of south-east London. Villains and cops alike were united in their fear of him. He relished and encouraged his status as ‘an animal’. The accidental death of the Clapham Rapist was attributed to him. This outlaw justice was secretly admired by most ranks. Over the years Superintendent Brown had tried unsuccessfully to get rid of him. Despite his disappointment, the senior officer still cherished dreams of discrediting the sergeant.
Falls, turning on Porter, put her hands on her hips, tried to bite down her bile but it wasn’t working. She spat:
‘Next time? You condescending prick, have you any idea how often I’ve sat that bloody exam?’
Porter glanced round nervously; the other cops were getting an earful and hoping for more. He put his hand out, touched her shoulder, said:
‘Let me get you some tea.’
She stormed off and Porter, at a loss, stared at her back. The desk sergeant, an obnoxious bollix, gave him the thumbs up. Porter sighed and took off, just in time to see her disappear into the Cricketers pub. When he entered, Falls was already at a corner table. He approached, asked:
‘What’ll you have?’
‘I’m getting it. I ordered for you too.’
Porter looked towards the barman. He thought he imagined it but did the guy wink? Jesus.
Porter sat down and Falls asked:
‘You still smoking or has your promotion put a stop to simple pleasures?’
He reached into his jacket — a smart leather job from Gap — and placed a green pack on the table. Falls snorted, said:
‘Fucking menthol! How gay is that?’
She extracted one, smelled it, managing to add a note of sensuality to the gesture, then snapped her fingers, said:
‘Light.’
He wanted to reach over, smack her in the mouth but suppressed it, fired her up. She did that annoying thing women do, took two drags, stubbed it out. Well, stabbed it twice in the ashtray, leaving it to smoulder. He reached over, burnt his fingers as he tried to extinguish the glow. He saw a flicker of a smile touch her lips. The barman breezed over, a tray held aloft, a riot of crisps and peanuts on it. Falls asked:
‘What’s the deal on the snacks? I didn’t order them.’
Chuckle from the barman, he nodded towards Porter, said:
‘Experience, darlin’. Been as long in this game as I have, you know your punter who’s going to want his salt ‘n’ vinegar. This way I save a trip.’
Falls took the glasses, handed one to Porter, said:
‘He’ll need paying.’
It was twice what Porter would have guessed; he didn’t figure on much return from his twenty. The barman was back at the bar when Falls shouted:
‘Pack of B amp;H.’
Got the look.
Porter sniffed his drink, asked:
‘Vodka? At those prices, they must be doubles.’
She nodded and took a hefty slug, Porter couldn’t drink it neat and shouted towards the bar:
‘Bottle of tonic… slimline.’
When the barman sniggered, Porter realised he was sounding like Arthur Daley which would never be a good idea. When the tonic and cigs came, the barman glared at Porter. As he left, Porter asked:
‘What was that about?’
Falls was opening peanuts, said:
‘He’s homophobic.’
‘Ah, come on, you’re saying he knows I’m gay?’
Falls eyed him and, with little affection, a shard of granite across her pupils, said:
‘Everybody knows.’
He let it slide. There’d been a time when he and Falls had been best mates. Almost from the off, they’d bonded, went dancing, drinking together. Then she’d bought into a shitpile of trouble. A skinhead she’d been friendly with was murdered and her life began to spiral. Porter’s promotion had sealed their separation. He was worried by the speed of her drinking. Her trouble with the booze had definitely worked against her attempt at sergeant. He asked:
‘How are you and Nelson doing?’
This was a detective from Vauxhall who’d saved Falls’ job then had begun a relationship with her. Porter had only met him a few times and found him to be aggressive and worse, dull. Vital qualifications for the Met. She signalled for another round then answered:
‘Nelson? Nelson is history.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She let her face show major surprise, gasped:
‘Oh, you knew him?’
‘Not really.’
Now her lip curled and she snarled:
‘Then why the fuck are you sorry? For all you know, I’m well shot of him.’
Porter stood up, shrugged his shoulders
‘I’ll leave you to it.’
A young cop came in, saw them and came over, said:
‘Sir, you’re wanted, it’s the bombing.’
Porter looked at Falls, asked:
‘Coming?’
‘I’m getting bombed here. You run along, do senior officer stuff.’
Some find themselves through joy, some through suffering and some through toil. Johnny had till now tried nothing but whiskey. A process that left him feeling like somebody new every day.’
2
Angie James was seriously deranged. She’d learnt that early and just as quickly had learnt to hide it. Took her a while to grasp that other people had a sense of right and wrong. Her radar operated on feeling good or feeling cheated. There was little in between. Imitation was her salvation, miming what others expressed honed her survival skills.
But at a cost.
Attempting to incinerate her family as a teenager got her a two-year spell in a psychiatric unit. The best two
