Blue Lantern (24 page)

“Patsies?” she said, fondling the word.

She had a wide vocabulary, wider than Brodie's, and she took a delight in colloquial words.

“The people I arrest probably aren't guilty of anything. They've either agreed to take the rap, or they are set up with fabricated evidence, people the triads and the police want removed from the scene.”

Helen looked serious. “One hears talk of it. Your bosses protect the real criminals in return for money?”

“That's the way it appears. And it's not the case of one or two isolated cops. I'm under pressure to take, and if I don't I'll be pushed into a backwater or out of the Force.”

The lie was the price of his relationship with Helen. He had taken his plight as close to reality as he could with her.

She thought for a moment. “I know your career is important to you, but if you were to take these payments, you become part of the system.”

He could not admit that a tiny renegade segment of his heart could conceive an enjoyable life, bolstered and smoothed by graft.

“I don't know where it would lead, Mike, in a practical sense. You might have an outwardly successful and prosperous life. But inside your head would be a torment. I guess it's like being a secret murderer. You can cover up the guilt. But you suffer. It's a burden too heavy to carry in a life already filled with suffering.”

Brodie thought he could sometimes see the anguish behind the attitudes of some of his senior colleagues, even the steely Marsden; but most of the time he only saw slick smiles, gold bracelets, and credit cards.

“It's impossible to fight the Force without becoming a martyr.”

“And more than can be asked of one person,” she said in a quiet and accepting voice.

He hadn't expected the resigned pragmatism.

“Are you surprised, Helen?”

“Yes and no,” she said, thoughtfully. “I'm surprised to have become so close to somebody embroiled in such a scene. But I'm not surprised at what I've learned from you. I think China is like Hong Kong in having pockets of decency, but there's an outer darkness in both countries which is, in part, evil. Perhaps everywhere is like that, I don't know.”

“Would you leave Hong Kong? I mean come away with me. Not a vacation.”

She turned her head to look full at him, her eyes catching the light with their tawney fleck. Whether she was seeking the answer, or trying to assess what kind of man was asking the question, he couldn't work out.

“Never mind,” he said hastily. “Don't think about it. It's my problem. We're going to have our vacation in Manila. Let's see how we feel after that.”

19

A week later, Brodie sat before Flinn, in Flinn's bare office. He felt decisive. He pulled two white envelopes from inside his shirt, and put them on the desk. Flinn watched him suspiciously, and waited for him to speak.

“I'm not taking any more squeeze, and I'm returning these.”

Brodie's move had not come out of the agony of indecision, and taken no soul-searching; it was an impetus built up over weeks, like water swelling in a drain blocked by sludge. At last the torrent had broken through and there was no stopping it.

Flinn got up slowly from his chair, came around the desk, and behind Brodie. He put a fist on Brodie's shoulder, pinning him in the chair, and slid his free hand over Brodie's chest, down to his crotch; then he went back to his chair.

“Just a precaution. What about the rest? The envelopes you're not returning?” Flinn asked, expressionless.

“OK, I spent it. But I'm not taking any more.”

“Why?”

“It's… dirty.”

Flinn leaned back in his chair, and raised his eyes to the ceiling seeking guidance. His lips formed an ironical ‘Oh' but remained silent for a moment. “You've finally decided, have you? Dirty? But the other payments didn't make you feel dirty. They only helped you get a down-payment on a car or whatever.”

“I made a mistake. I shouldn't have taken the money.”

A spurt of breath came from Finn's chest. “A mistake? You're joking. A long drawn out mistake. You knew what you were being paid for.”

“It was a misjudgement, then. I wasn't thinking clearly.”

Flinn's lips curled in derision over his misplaced teeth. “You're not goin' to make out in the Force, Brodie. What are you, a girl?”

“Don't try and push any more of it on me,” Brodie said, getting up to leave.

Flinn sprang agilely to his feet, and raised his arm over Brodie. “Not so fast, sonny. We have matters to settle, important matters. Sit down!”

Brodie sank back into his chair knowing that Flinn had probably manipulated a hundred novice inspectors with over-sensitive consciences. Flinn took his time when he saw he had a more docile Brodie before him.

“You know, I always thought there was something unsatisfactory about you as a cop. I know men. Sure, your operational record's OK, but you can't take orders. You come here from the Gorbals, and you think we should be so lucky to have you. You want things to work as though this was the Presbyterian Church. Well, sonny, it isn't.”

Flinn drilled his stare into Brodie, and wiped away a drop of foam at the corner of his mouth. “You're a misfit, Brode, like your pal Sherwin. You'll dress up your stance with a lot of moralizing, but the bottom line is that you're a misfit. And you're soft. You lack the plain ornery guts to get into a violent job and do it. I wouldn't like to be in the front line with you as a cop, let alone a fucking officer.”

Brodie was needled by the accusations of softness and cowardice, but gestured non-committally with his hand.

“What about our deal? Are you going to go out on your own? I covered for you in the Lo Sun case because I figured you were getting one back for your friend, but I'm not having a rogue inspector out there.”

Brodie couldn't help a stiff laugh. “Rogue? What you mean is a police inspector doing his job. You bastards are the rogues!”

He walked out.

That day, Brodie worked his shift with Bravo 2, and while he felt a lightness at having at last rejected Flinn's payments, he had misgivings about not having resolved the ‘deal' with Flinn. He came off duty at six pm and completed his report, but Flinn was not in his office. If he had been, Brodie would have assumed some humility and gone to see him. Brodie had thought it out. He might as well take the graft if he was prepared to move like a marionette to support the system which delivered it. The discussion would therefore come down to getting a transfer. But a transfer to where? Would another department have him if there was any question of maverick behaviour? With these thoughts churning, he went up to his room, poured a whisky, and called Andy Marsden.

Marsden's clipped voice on the line lifted to a purr when he knew it was Brodie.

“I've talked to Flinn…”

“Not now. I'm going out. I'll call in on the way.”

In half an hour Marsden was standing before him, impressive in a dark suit and a silk tie like a rainbow. His hair was oiled, and his marble eyes bulged. Brodie was collapsed angularly across the bed, long-faced, with lank hair.

“Tell me,” Marsden said.

Marsden became grimmer, his jaw muscles flexing, as Brodie explained.

“How could you be so stupid, Mike, to act like this without telling me?”

“You'd have persuaded me to keep on taking.”

“I'd have tried. Now, I'll give you the same advice I gave Sherwin. Refuse the money, but do what Flinn & Co tell you.”

“They'll never trust me.”

“Possibly. You could be transferred. You've really fucked up, maximum. I tell you what. See Flinn. Tell him you'll follow orders. Then I'll have a word. He owes me. We'll sort it.”

Brodie didn't disagree, but when Marsden had gone, he decided not to try to find Flinn; he was too confused to trust himself. Safe inside his room, he emptied the whisky bottle, his ache diluted in the amber liquid.

20

Brodie was awakened by a bright light in his eyes, and a hand, which smelled of tobacco, on his throat. At first, it was like another lurch in his drunken sleep; then he thought it was a robbery.

The lights in the room were on. Instead of a face, he was looking at a card held close to his eyes; it depicted a crown over a lion and a unicorn, the coat of arms on the identity card of a superintendent from Internal Inquiries. He turned his head aside, and the red vein of the digital clock said five am.

The man sniffed. “Phew, you've been having a little party, Inspector.”

He picked up the empty Johnnie Walker Red bottle on the bedside table, looked at it, and replaced it. He was wearing latex gloves.

“We're going to have a look round here, Brodie, as we're entitled to do under the code. Police premises. Suspicion of taking bribes. My name is Burgner, with Mr Yearsley.”

There was a younger man in the room, but both looked the same; short-cut hair, pink skin, dark suits and ties, with white shirts. Burgner sat on the bed.

“You lie still and keep quiet,” he said to Brodie, pulling out a notebook.

Yearsley searched the room methodically, throwing aside roughly what he wanted to discard. He dropped items into a plastic bag; the camera, but not the Rolex which he missed under books scattered on the table. He took the purchase receipts Brodie had been keeping against the guarantees on the goods he had bought. Burgner went through Brodie's wallet, and glanced at his bank statements, which he pocketed. Yearsley found an empty, open white envelope on the top shelf of Brodie's wardrobe.

“Interesting,” he said.

“What's this for? Who sent you?” Brodie howled.

“You know what it's for, Inspector. And as for who sent us, we just heard from a dickie bird,” Burgner said.

Yearsley examined the clothes in Brodie's wardrobe, and removed the designer label t-shirts, two pairs of Gucci shoes, and a Hugo Boss suit.

“Nice little wardrobe you've got, nice,” Burgner said.

Brodie sat up on the bed, with a choking feeling of panic.

“Tell us how much you've been getting, Brodie,” Burgner said in a slippery, intimate voice. “What's the scam? A mamma with a room-full of girls? Who are you putting the screws on?”

Brodie had the instinct that only complete silence could save him.

“You'd be going some to buy these on your salary, Brodie,” Burgner said, pointing at the sackfull.

Yearsley, probably only a couple of years ahead of Brodie, came and stood over him. “Ever been out to Stanley Prison, Inspector? You should go while you can still ride a bike, and have a look, because that's where you'll be. We've got you dead to rights.”

“I'd agree with that,” Burgner confirmed, raising his notebook. “You want to say anything? The more you cooperate, the easier it will be for you. Looks kinda funny if you don't say anything.”

“I haven't done anything wrong. Put that in your fucking book!” Brodie croaked.

Burgner made an amused play of writing. “Suspect otherwise declined to make a statement. We don't need your statement, Brodie. We already have enough evidence.”

Yearsley held up a receipt for the items they were removing, and dropped it on the table. He gathered the plastic bag, and the two IID men left the room with last glances of contempt for Brodie.

“God!” Brodie said, burying his face in his hands, as a sob convulsed him.

Brodie sat on his bed until dawn, awake, his mind shocked into immobility. At seven, the earliest hour he could decently ring Andy Marsden, he did. Marsden had had a heavy night, but he quickly invited Brodie to come to his apartment, cutting short any discussion on the telephone.

Brodie showered in a daze, pulled on an old t-shirt, sweater and ragged jeans, and walked to Marsden's apartment. When he entered, Marsden was having breakfast with the terrace doors open to the sharp air, reading a newspaper, and occasionally watching a TV on a side table. He was wearing a purple silk dressing gown, and looked fresh and groomed. Brodie was pale and ill; he threw himself into a nearby chair, refusing food.

“That bastard Flinn turned me in to Internal Inquiries, and they raided my room at five this morning, if you can believe it.”

Marsden calmly applied the thick cut orange marmalade which he favoured to his buttered toast, with full attention. “You saw Flinn as I suggested?”

“No, …I didn't.”

“Silly man,” Marsden said, shaking his head tolerantly. “There was obviously going to be some fall-out from your meeting with Flinn – unless you saw him as I suggested. I hadn't figured out what Flinn might do, or when, but now we know. Pity. He must have reckoned you were too much of a loose cannon to delay. Now he's pinned you down. You could be disciplined, or prosecuted if there's evidence you've been taking squeeze; is there?”

“They took stuff. Camera, clothing, receipts for things.”

Marsden groaned. The amah brought a coffee pot. He poured, and offered a cup to Brodie. “They've got you. Add up the cost of the goods. Compare it with your income. The fact you couldn't afford these things will stick out like a dog's balls.”

“I'm finished.”

“Not necessarily, Mike. You know, this is freshly ground Columbian coffee, and it tastes like drainwater.”

“Why?” Brodie said, unable to see a glimmer of light.

“Flinn has neutralized you. He didn't know which way you were going to jump. You might have lodged a complaint against him, or rampaged around Mongkok arresting his best clients. So you represent a nuisance. Not a threat. A damn nuisance. Bingo! He's moved first, and has you by the short and curlies.”

“I can't see a way out.”

“It means that setting up the official enquiry may be enough. Get it? You get scared and shut up. No charges are brought. I don't think Flinn wants a fight about extortion at Mongkok, and it could broaden out to that, if you fight hard. He wants to throw a scare into you, and get you out of Mongkok with your lips sealed.”