the tunic, and ran a hand through her frizzy hair. Once, in a moment of madness, she’d had all the kinks ironed out and that had hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.
Rosie had been alive then and when she’d seen the result, she’d wailed:
‘Oh, big mistake! Are you trying to pass for white?’
That hurt and in more ways than she’d ever admit. Rosie had been her best friend, a WPC on the ladder up. They’d called themselves the poor man’s Cagney and Lacey, and had shared the chauvinism they’d had to endure on a daily basis. Then one day Rosie had gone on a routine call, a domestic, hardly even worth writing up. The guy, a junkie with Aids, had bitten her. Tormented as to how she’d tell her husband, she’d slit her wrists and taken a long, hot bath; was dead before the water went cold. Falls had sworn then that she’d never get close to another cop, it was too risky.
She arrived early at the station and at the door, a fresh faced young woman in uniform eagerly approached, asking, ‘WPCFlass?’
Falls sighed, said:
‘You’re going to be a policewoman?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Then take the bloody time to get my name right.’
The woman was in those impossible early twenties, where they look barely sixteen. She had black hair cut short, brown eyes and a face that might have been described as pretty if you had three drinks behind you. The uniform disguised her shape but she seemed to be in good physical nick. It was the fresh-faced energy that annoyed Falls, the gung-ho, raring- to-go shit that they presented. Falls asked:
‘How did you know it was me?’
The woman looked back towards the desk sergeant, who was grinning from ear to ear, hesitated, and Falls said:
‘Spit it out, he told you to wait for the nigger, is that it? You want to work with me, you better get honest; I can’t stand lies.’
This was a little rich coming from Falls, who told lies all the time, but what the hell? The thing with young people is they tend to believe outrageous crap like that. The woman gave an uncertain smile, said:
‘He told me you’d be late… and that you’d be hung-over… oh, and that you were black as his shoe.’
Falls gave him the look, which he enjoyed immensely, the fuck even winked, and then she asked:
‘What’s your name?’
‘WPC Andrews.’
The pride with which she trotted it out was appalling and, worse, you knew she’d rehearsed it a hundred times, probably in front of a mirror. She’d have a family, a happy mum and dad who were so proud of their little girl. All the frigging neighbours would have turned out to wish her well and they’d watch The Bill with renewed vigour. Falls gave her the fixed stare, said:
‘One of the traits required of a police person is accuracy: an ability to actually listen to the question you are asked. Now let’s try again: what is your name, not your flaming rank and serial number, can you do that?
She could and said:
‘Patricia Andrews, but my friends call me Trish.’
This was much as Falls expected: stupidity and confidence, the worst combination there is. In jig time, of course, she’d be called Julie and every wag in the station would whistle ‘The Sound of Music’ at least once as she passed. Falls brushed past her, said:
‘Let’s get to the most important part of policing.’
Andrews was near gushing, went:
‘We’re going to get our assignment?’
‘No, we’re going to get tea.’
Falls led the way, a disappointed Andrews trailing behind. The canteen was full of uniformed officers who all turned to gawk at the new girl. Falls said:
‘You’ll need to know two things — the tea lady is named Gladys and the morons here call tea “a Sid Vicious” because in the movie Sid and Nancy, Gary Oldman tells his record exec to get a tea with two sugars and adds “Yah cunt”.’
Andrews didn’t understand this at all and Falls wasn’t sure she did either. Falls took a table and Andrews asked:
‘So do I ask Gladys for a Sid Vicious?’
‘No, you ask for two teas and a Club Milk.’
Andrews lightened and asked:
‘Oh, can I have a Club Milk too?’
‘It’s not for us, it’s for Brant.’
As Andrews approached the counter she glanced back at Falls and that’s when the bomb went off.
10
It was a small blast, only damaging the counter and Gladys’ nerves. But there was consternation in the canteen and men rushing for the exit. Brant appeared and moved quickly to the area, pulled Andrews clear, said:
‘Get the fuck out, there might be a second.’
The station was evacuated and the Bomb Squad arrived, as did the press. Cops were piled three lines deep outside and within a half-hour, the all-clear was given and the canteen sealed off for Forensics. A mobile catering van was ordered as the cops couldn’t — wouldn’t — work without a steady stream of tea. Andrews, her uniform covered in dust, was highly excited and blabbering like an idiot till Falls, exasperated, slapped her face, said:
‘Shut the fuck up. Jesus!’
She did.
Brant watching, gave a huge smile, said:
‘Welcome to the Met.’
The bomb had been posted to the canteen and Gladys had left it until later. Roberts gathered his team and as they took their seats, the phone went. He picked up, heard the metallic voice:
‘Sorry to interrupt your tea but this was a little incentive to get you up to speed. Remember the deadline, and now you know how vulnerable you are.’
Click.
Roberts looked round the room, said:
‘The Super is going to throw a blue fit. Did anyone ever think to monitor the post?’
Nobody had. They went back to assessing the results so far and concluded they had nothing. Later, the Bomb Squad reported that the bomb was the same as the previous two but had been designed to frighten rather than maim.
Roberts sighed, said:
‘Like that’s going to save my ass.’
When he got to finally see the Super, he was dreading the bollocking he knew was coming. Brown was having his afternoon tea, a Kimberley biscuit on the saucer. Roberts knew from horrendous experience that the Super dunked the biscuit and then strained it between his teeth, making loud slurping sounds as he did so. It was on a par with Imelda Marcos singing ‘Impossible Dream’ or William Shatner’s version of ‘Bridge Over Troubled Waters’. If anything, it probably had the edge in grotesqueness. To Roberts’ amazement, Brown was strangely subdued and the anticipated roaring might not be on the cards after all.
Brown took ages to look up, then finally:
‘There have been some developments.’
Roberts dared to hope, said:
‘There’s been a break in the case?’
The Super shook his head, seemed weighed down with fatigue, said:
