noteworthy, they were quiet.
Silence and hookers are not usually in the same neighbourhood. Falls knew the older ones and approached them, asked:
‘What’s happening, girls?’
The younger ones sneered at her, but Beth, a veteran, said:
‘We’re here for Brant.’
Wait till the press got hold of that. Falls knew Brant would be delighted, asked:
‘Any news?’
Beth glanced at the group of officers in a corner, said:
‘Sure, those pricks are keeping us right up to date.’
Falls nearly smiled, and Beth added:
‘Most of them are shit scared I’ll call them by their first names and I might yet.’
Falls said she’d see what she could learn, and Beth looked at her, said:
‘Lose the blazer.’
Porter detached himself from the brass, came to Falls, snapped:
‘What kept you?’
Falls knew of the odd friendship between him and Brant, but he didn’t need to take it out on her. She lashed back:
‘You called me twenty minutes ago. What you’d think, I’d fucking fly over?’
He backed off, said:
‘There’s no news yet, he’s still in intensive care, I have to go to the station, be debriefed, I was with Brant when he got hit.’
Fallswent into cop mode, asked:
‘Did you see the shooter?’
Porter, his face drawn, said:
‘It happened so quickly, I never got a chance.’
Fallsconsidered that, then said as she moved away:
‘Too busy saving your own skin.’
Robertsarrived, with Andrews in tow, looked stunned to see the hooker convention, and moved to the officers, said:
‘Get them out of here.’
Oneof the younger guys said:
‘They might make a scene.’
Roberts gave him his full gaze, said:
‘Don’t give me fucking lip, give me results.’
Hegrabbed Porter, heard how the shooting went down, then:
‘I had a call from the shooter.’
Porter was astonished, asked:
‘Did he say why?’
Roberts couldn’t believe the stupidity, said:
‘ ’Cos it’s fucking Brant, why’d you think?’
Roberts asked if Brant had any family, and Porter said:
‘We thought you’d be the most likely to know, you being his mate and all.’
Roberts blew that off, said:
‘Nobody is Brant’s mate. Haven’t you learnt anything?’
Roberts did know there’d been a wife and eventually got one of the officers to track her down, got the phone number, and Porter volunteered:
‘If you wish, sir, I can make the call.’
Trying to regain some ground, he felt Roberts had never liked him.
He was right.
Roberts, the mobile in his hand, stopped, asked:
‘Do you know her?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then why the fuck would you call her?’
And turned away. He dialled the number and a woman answered. He explained who he was and in what he hoped was a sympathetic tone, explained what had happened, she cut him off with:
‘Is he dead?’
‘No, thank god…’
‘Call me when he is.’
Click.
Stunned, Roberts stared at the phone. Porter was hovering, asked:
‘How did she take it?’
‘Real well. She sounded like she won the lottery.’
They say all coppers are bastards. They’re not-but those that are make a very good job of it.
5
Terry Dunne was nervous. Not a good feeling for a hit man to have. He’d been in the business for over two years, making a nice rep, building it slow and steady. He’d done a few criminals, guys who’d crossed the wrong people, got greedy, and got whacked. No civilians and, so far, no heat. The cops treated it as almost a service when someone took the wrong uns off the board. So he’d stayed under the radar, his name known to the men who mattered.
When he’d got the assignment for Brant, he’d nearly said no. A cop is a whole other league and the fallout was ferocious, but if you want to move up? Too, the guy who took Brant out was going to be legend, could double, shit, triple his fees. There wasn’t a major villain in South-East London who didn’t want Brant out of the picture. But the bastard, maybe it was his Irish blood, he had the luck of the very devil. Terry had gone along to meet with the man who wanted the hit, he’d been picked up by a BMW on the Clapham Road, and just one occupant in the car, the driver.
He’d opened the door, asked:
‘Terry Dunne?’
When Terry Dunne nodded, the guy said:
‘Hop in, old chap.’
Spokelike a Tory outrider, and he had the looks to match. In his forties, with a ruddy face, prominent nose, beady eyes, and an air of… what did they call it in the posh papers… yeah, bonhomie. Terry learned that word in Scrabble with his old lady. She was a bitch for them frog words, but he’d liked the ring of it, used it every chance. Mind you, the pubs, clubs of Brixton, Kennington, Stockwell, you didn’t get to use it much. Unless you wanted your card marked as pillow biter. You used a word like that, you better be carrying.
The man drove them to Canary Wharf, asking:
‘You’re not in a hurry old bean, are you?’
Not if he was being paid and, as if reading his thoughts, the guy said:
‘You will, of course, be amply rewarded for your time.’
