Sorta.
Being a ranking officer and gay was not exactly usual. Plus, to add to his CV he’d recently been diagnosed with diabetes and had moved to type one. This is not an award, on the fucking contrary, it’s heavy weather, you have to inject twice a day. Porter had never tried to hide his gayness. In fact he frequently paraded it through outward gestures, gestures the Carter Street cops believed proved you were gay, like menthol cigs, Barbara Streisand music, a gold bracelet, and, damning proof, a caustic tongue.
But Porter got results and impressive ones. Even Brant, a raging homophobe, gave him grudging respect. Porter had previously been gold in the prize posting of Kensington. Nirvana, the upper echelon of the Met. A question over the beating of a p?dophile led to his transfer.
Initially, he’d made a close bond with Falls, a true merger of minorities, but her spectacular spiral downwards had split them. He missed her.
She detested him.
Had spat:
‘You’re not gay, you’re ambitious.’
Even a faggot couldn’t comprehend this logic. He’d asked:
‘What the hell does that mean?’
She’d glared at him, sparks emphasizing the whiteness of her large eyes, radiant against the black of her skin, said:
‘It means you’re a prick, no pun intended.’
Gay that.
He couldn’t.
The new boyfriend was named Trevor Blake. Porter had met him in a pub near the Oval. Trevor was the barman, in his late twenties, and was riding the stick.
In normal English, pulling pints.
Porter had had a rough day. The Super had carpeted him, said:
‘Listen to this.’
He was holding a letter, his hands trembling with agitation.
Read:
To Supt. Brown
Greetings, sir. See, I have manners. I learnt from Elvis and the novels of Daniel Buckman that manners are the finest manipulation.
Brown paused, adjusted his pince-nez, looked out over them, asked:
‘Is that true?’
‘Sorry, sir, is what true?’
Brown was not amused, snapped:
‘About bloody manners. Don’t your lot do etiquette at queer school?’
Porter felt the lash, the almost lazy bigotry, the redneck conclusion of civility with homosexuality, tried to rein in, said:
‘If you mean, sir, do “Us lot” care about the feelings of others, well yes, we do have manners. As to manipulation, I couldn’t rightly say’
Pushing it.
He thought the Super was trailer trash, tried not to display so too openly. The sarcasm was wasted. It went right over Brown’s head, who resumed reading:
I wish to inform you that last Tues. I pushed a man under a train. The express from Brighton, it was of course late and no buffet service I believe. He was the first. This Friday, I’ll kill a woman, without prejudice, extreme or otherwise. My mission, which I’ve decided to accept, is to teach the denizens of our little corner a lesson.
A lesson in manners.
Anyone, and I mean anyone, who behaves like an asshole in public shall be terminated. What people do in private is, naturally, none of my business. For research purposes, you might read Mr Candid by Jules Hardy or Blackstone by… mmmm, the author’s name escapes me; he kills people for similar reasons.
A copy of this missive has been sent to the media. I don’t want to draw them on you, but if we involve them at an early stage, maybe it’s for the best.
Perhaps you’d be kind enough to inform your officers that they are not exempt from my intended cull.
Between us, Superintendent, we may create a tiny patch of civility in Southeast London. Is it too much to ask that in these uncertain days of fear, with cyberterrorists, ecoterrorists, and just plain terrorists, we may create a small area of forever England.’ Who knows, it may catch on, and the country might learn a touch of refinement. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, eh? I’ll do my part and, as a sign of my good faith, noblesse oblige if you will, I’m going to save you some valuable time.
I typed this on an old Remington I bought at a boot sale. Sharp, trained, and observant as you are, you’ll have noticed the ‘T’ is faulty.
Brown hadn’t.
This is not a clue, simply a faulty consonant. The paper I bought in Ryman’s, like a million other customers (or so they’d like us to believe).
Fingerprints?
Alas, no. The old surgical gloves.
DNA?
On the stamp… or the flap of the envelope… again no. I used tap water.
I have provided one clue. Fair is fair, as we English tell the Iraqis. No, silly, not my nationality. Do focus, that’s not the clue.
Porter suppressed a smile.
The clue is the nom de plume. As the current idiom has it… ‘Wanna play?’ I think a recent novel by P.J. Taylor used that as a title.
I digress.
Good will hunting.
Yours predatorily, FORD.
Brown removed the pince-nez, literally flung the letter at Porter, and said:
‘Get on it.’
‘Am… sir.’
The brusqueness was deliberate. Porter, not touching the letter, asked:
‘Is it right, no fingerprints?’
Brown was close to a coronary, roared:
‘Course there’re bloody prints; the postman, my secretary, mine, and probably a hundred others, but usable ones?’
He banged his desk, asked: ‘What type of moron do you take me for?’ There wasn’t a civil answer to this.
Porter had gone to the pub and met Trevor, ending the day on a high note.
… but now I just listened-not liking it… but accepting the confessions as an unwelcome part of the deal I had made with myself.
