of the shot.
She would hear it for the rest of her life.
25
As Falls stormed into the station, the cops got one look at her enraged expression and got out of her way.
Real fast.
Andrews, still smarting about the weight quip, got in her path and was literally shouldered aside.
The desk sergeant, never a Falls groupie, whispered:
‘On the rag, eh.’
If she’d heard that, he’d have eaten it.
Count on it
But perhaps there is karma, some kind of cosmic balance, as later that evening, watching his beloved Liverpool beat the shite outta Newcastle United, his telly blew up.
Go figure.
Falls didn’t knock on Roberts’s door, just barged in and before he could mutter:
‘What the… ’
She launched.
‘Well, Chief Inspector, I made the call, as you ordered, to McDonald, remember… he’s a cop.’
She paused, was that… is a cop or… was?
Roberts feigned indifference, his face showing, shit happens, he asked:
‘He want any help from you?’
She gave a smile, if a blend of rage and murderous intent can produce such, said:
‘I told him to run.’
Roberts gave a nasty chuckle and Falls wondered how she’d ever liked this prick. He said:
‘He’d be wise to take it.’
She had to physically rein herself in, a wave of bile rose in her gut, and she said, spinning on her heel:
‘Be a tad difficult with a fucking bullet in his skull.’
And she stormed out, slamming the door with all her might, hailed a cab, said to the driver:
‘Take me to The Clapham Arms.’
He wasn’t all that sure where it was, but something told him not to ask. He’d figure it out.
There were no smoking decals all over the taxi and as she put a cig between her lips, he ventured:
‘Wanna light?’
Little fanfare the exit make
Unheralded is the lone departure
26
These lines, from a little-known Irish poet, might well best describe McDonald’s exit from London.
The brass were quick to shut down the whole story, and a new terrorist alert kept the focus off some poor schmuck eating his gun.
Favours were called in, threats made, and the whole sorry episode was allowed to simper, slouch away.
McDonald ’s parents were told he was killed in a tragic accident, and they couldn’t afford to come down to London so the Met had him cremated and sent him by second-class mail from Paddington.
His mother put the urn over the fireplace, right beside a photo of Charles and Diana, no one had yet told her that Charles was married again, the odd visitor was a little startled to be told, that’s my boy there, on the mantelpiece.
Brant, on hearing the news, said:
‘Silly bugger.’
Roberts felt a daily sense of guilt.
Porter wished he’d known him better.
Falls, Falls went on a massive bender and midway through this, she was in a pub in Balham.
Balham?
Don’t ask.
It was a bender.
She’d hit that lucky third vodka where the hangover has abated and you’re even considering a touch of grub, considering, not actually going to eat.
A woman appeared, a young man in tow, said:
‘Hey, sweetie, might we join you?’
Angie.
The vixen.
And the young guy, Jesus, the bloke she’d framed for the Happy-Slapper gig. She was truly lost for words.
Angie was dressed to fuck, black leather mini, black boots, and a blouse that bore testament to the miracle of the Wonderbra.
Angie sat, said to the guy:
‘Be a dear, get some drinks in, and oh, a large vodka for our favourite policewoman.’
Falls rallied.
‘The fuck do you want, you crazy bitch?’
Angie laughed, nothing she liked better than warfare, she said:
‘To see you, darling. I get hot just remembering our love-making.’
And Falls felt her face burn. Must be the damn booze, does that to you. Before she could utter a scathing reply, Angie said:
‘The young dreamboat with me, you know him, or course, I was hoping we might work out something, make this whole silly charge… how should I put it… evaporate?’
Falls took a deep swallow of her almost neat vodka, then:
‘Never happen. He’s going down and with any luck, you’ll be joining him.’
The guy was back, carrying a tray of drinks. He looked at Falls with pure hatred, plonked her drink down so it spilt, sat down, Angie cooed:
‘Liz, sugar, you remember John… John Coleman, the poor lamb you set up or do you set up so many you forget their names. He sure won’t forget yours.’
She squeezed his thigh, his eyes never left Falls, Angie continued:
‘We have a proposition for you, love. You drop this nonsense against John, and I won’t sell my night of torrid sex with black, recently promoted sergeant. Does that sound… reasonable?’
Falls was fucked, knew it, reacted by taking on the stare of Coleman, leaned over to him, said:
‘Keep looking at me like that and I’ll take your fucking sheep’s eyes out.’
He pulled back, way back.
Angie was thrilled.
‘See, John, didn’t I tell you she was a downright tigress?’
