‘It’s the police. In a minute we’ll force the door.’
Roberts was alone but in no mood for Falls and her nonsense. Falls thought:
Oh, God. They’ve found Angie already. I’m fucked.
She opened the door, saw Roberts, and nearly threw up on him, he pushed her aside, said:
‘On the piss again, that’s a help.’
She closed the door quietly, the world spun for a moment, and she had to struggle for balance. Roberts surveyed the wreck of the room, bottles everywhere, and then took a closer look at Falls, said:
‘I like the shoes, very classy, though I’m not sure they go with the T-shirt.’
Falls gazed in horror at Angie’s shoes, how the hell did that happen, and at Snoopy on her shirt. Like her own self, he was the worse for wear. Roberts picked up a bottle of Stoli, examined the top, asked:
‘What’d you do, crack someone over the head with this?’
Before Falls could utter a word, he poured a healthy measure into a mug, said:
‘You better have some of this, hair of the dog that bit you. But I think the dog was rabid from the state of you here.’
And he offered the mug, she could hardly hold it from the shakes, but managed to get it to her lips, drank greedily. The liquid hit her like acid and she gasped, thought she was going to spew wholesale, Roberts watched with a certain detached interest. He’d been down this road himself so he wasn’t entirely unsympathetic. It was, in fact, Falls who’d hauled him back from the toilet so there was a certain symmetry in this. The battle in her stomach waged for nearly three minutes. Doesn’t seem long, but if you’re the one with the stomach, it’s eternity:
Her stomach won out and the booze settled in for another session, waiting for more of the same. Roberts said:
‘Sit down before you collapse.’
She did, sit that is.
Kicked off the shoes, Christ, soon as she was able. She was burning those fuckers.
Roberts made some coffee and as he did so, Falls recalled bits and horrendous pieces of the evening before.
Holy shit, she’d killed the Vixen.
Roberts put a steaming mug before her, said:
‘No more booze. Get that down you and let me see if I can get any sense out of you?’
She managed to speak, said:
‘I’m okay now. Why are you here?’
Roberts sat back, remembered when Falls had been the wet dream of the nick, and gung ho, believing a black WPC could really make a difference. The years had soured her beyond belief, but then he didn’t believe a whole lot in anything either. Truth was, he’d always liked her and so he went easier than he’d planned, said:
‘I’m going to give you a break, for old times’ sake, I could start asking you where you were with on a certain night, and more importantly, who you were with?’
Falls was convinced it was Angie. She was going to go down for the psycho bitch, but in truth, she didn’t feel any remorse for walloping her… killing her?… well?
Roberts said:
‘Rodney Lewis was murdered and, of course, the most likely suspect is our man Brant.’
Then he did her the favour, told her the day and time of Lewis’s demise, and asked:
‘Sergeant Falls, were you with Sergeant Brant on the day and time in question?’
Falls had no idea. She couldn’t for the life of her remember anything beyond the hazy events of the previous evening. She said, without hesitation:
‘Yes, sir, I was.’
They both knew she was lying, and it hung there for a moment, blackening whatever affection, bond, had been between them. Roberts sighed, said:
‘Be very sure you want to do this… Liz.’
She nearly laughed, the last person to use her first name was rotting in a Dumpster.
Fuck, may be she’d kill anyone who came by, sure would give the postman a turn.
She reached for the bottle, and Roberts looked like he might protest, but then he waved her on. She hefted the bottle in her hand, looked at Roberts, and realized how easy it would be just to go on a wild murderous spree, as long as you had booze to lubricate the process, how hard could it be?
She poured a smallish amount, took a sip, and sat back, let out a tiny sigh of, if not contentment then a certain resignation. Roberts was half tempted to join her. He hated like hell to see a good copper go down the shitter. He said:
‘You go to bat for Brant, you’re more or less washed up, not that you seem the brightest prospect just at the minute, but the Super, you know he wants Brant and if you’re the one to save him, then, you’re the one he’ll destroy.’
She nodded:
Roberts stood up, asked:
‘You really want to jettison your career for… Brant?’
She smiled. It was such a rare event that Roberts was momentarily taken aback. He’d forgotten how pretty she could be and his damn fool heart skipped a beat, the smile was tinged with such sadness that he wanted to put his arms round her, tell her it would be alright.
Yeah… sure.
They were coppers and, worse, English ones, such a gesture would have scared the bejesus out of them both.
She stood too, and seemed like she might shake his hand, she asked:
‘You think I have a choice?’
And Roberts, who knew Brant better than most anyone, which wasn’t a whole lot, said:
‘I’ll do my best for you.’
She reached out, touched his arm, said:
‘You always have.’
Atthe door, he said:
‘Go easy on that stuff, we need the best and brightest.’
She gave another of those killer smiles, said:
‘Not to mention the blackest.’
Then she closed the door. Roberts hesitated for a moment, debated going back in but moved to his car, he thought about her last remark, and trying for the cynicism he needed to survive, he whispered:
‘Hang on to that sense of humour, you’re going to fucking need it.’
The best ammunition is the stuff you keep in reserve.
35
Falls’s alibi led to the case against Brant being dropped.
His agent threw a huge party in Covent Garden, and Brant invited everyone, including his hookers. As the party progressed, they’d do major biz, everybody wins. Falls was a no-show.
Porter showed up, looking sheepish and approached Brant, who was opening yet another magnum of Champers. Porter put out his hand, said:
‘No hard feelings.’
