7
The second explosion was at a teenage disco, situated off Coldharbour Lane. A large hall had been converted by local builders, its aim to keep teenagers away from the main strip in Brixton. So now the kids hit the strip first, scored the dope, then went to the disco. Parents, delighted at the lack of booze, congratulated themselves on their efforts.
Two parents, acting as bouncers, were injured in the blast. The dynamite had been placed in a litter bin sited conveniently at the main entrance. The victims, covered in blood, were on the front page of all the papers with screaming headlines:
BOMBER TARGETS TEENS
Roberts, all control gone, was shouting:
‘They didn’t phone… why didn’t they bloody phone? I mean, play fucking fair, we never even got a chance to answer the ransom demand. What the hell is going on?’
No one knew. Roberts glared at his team. Porter Nash, clearing his throat, began:
‘I met with the Bomb Squad.’
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s the same outfit, same MO. A few sticks of dynamite and the crude timer.’
Brant, lit a cig, exhaled, asked:
‘Any luck on the usual suspects?’
‘No, seems to be a new operator.’
Roberts slammed his hand on the table, said:
‘I’ve to meet the Super in ten minutes… is that what I tell him…? That we figure it’s a new operator? He’s going to fucking lap that up, bound to be commendations all round.’
Porter Nash felt he should say something further, tried:
‘The victims are doing well, the injuries looked worse than they actually were.’
Roberts wasn’t placated
‘Take a look at the bloody tabloids, the damage is already done.’
A silence descended and the atmosphere was thick with recrimination.
The phone rang.
‘I ran a tape I’d rented on the way back, Jennifer
Jason Leigh in Rush. I felt like watching cops get fucked up.’
8
Roberts grabbed the phone, said:
‘Yes?’
A robotic tone, speaking through one of those voicechangers, asked:
‘You in charge of the bomber case?’
‘Yes, I’m Chief Inspector Roberts.’
‘Impressive title, you like to use that, I’d say. What you’d do, kiss some major ass to get there?’
‘Is that a question?’
Heard a snigger, someone in the background, then:
‘Naw, I like fucking with you. Lighten up, pal, these are the jokes. You’ll have had a second explosion?’
Roberts was furious, he felt chest pains, asked:
‘What happened to a warning? What happened to you calling about the money?’
More sniggers, then:
‘Tell you the truth, Rob, it got away from us. That ever happen to you? The truth is, we changed the rules. You want to know why?’
‘Why?’
‘’Cos we can.’
Roberts glanced round the room, saw the stone expressions, said:
‘You want payment, you’ll have to play by some rules.’
Silence and he thought the call had ended, then a harsher tone:
‘You fuck-face, you mind if I call you that? Not that it matters, you’re a messenger boy, got it? Your function is to act as bagman. We want six large.’
‘What?’
‘Two explosions — this shit is expensive. Time and money, you get my meaning? But hey, I can lighten up, cut you some slack. How would it be if I give you 48 hours, say Friday evening, round 6.00? I’ll give you a bell, that help at all?’
Roberts took a deep breath, tried to rein in his rage, said:
‘I’ll need more time.’
‘No can do, fellah.’
Click.
Roberts put the phone down, said:
‘See if there’s any hope of a trace. Not that I expect one.’
No trace.
9
Falls came to with a bad hangover. She was wearing a long old Snoopy T-shirt that had been washed so often the dog was no longer distinguishable. Her mouth was like a desert and she went to the kitchen, gulped a glass of water. It hit her stomach like ice and she retched, said:
‘That’s it, I’m never drinking again, least not on week nights.’
This was a familiar mantra: as comfortable as it was bogus. She began to boil some water, thinking tea would help, at least wake her up.
She was up for a new assignment. Word was that a new WPC was coming on board and Falls would be nursemaiding her. Of all the duties she loathed, this was the one she loathed most. All that enthusiasm, the high ideals and the spirit of camaraderie they expected. It was so fucking wearing. Then came the gradual erosion of energy and an initial disbelief that developed into full-blown cynicism. When they asked with that bright, fresh tone: ‘What am I to do?’ Falls longed to scream: ‘QUIT!’
Yeah, like they were ever going to believe her. Then Brant would come sniffing as he always did with the new ones and he’d turn on the full Celtic charm. Few could charm like that devil. She’d succumbed herself and more than once. He’d fuck them over every which way till Tuesday and they’d come back for more.
She dressed in her uniform and stood back to survey what she saw. A black woman dressed in the clothes of the enemy, that’s what a black man had told her in Brixton market. She’d tried to rationalise it, told him that at least this way they had help in the ranks, knew how weak she sounded and saw his lip curl with disdain. He rapped:
‘Yo be fooling your own self, girl.’
More and more, she was coming to believe he had been right. Using a brush, she flicked flecks of white off
