Calibre (2 page)

‘I tell you, sir, the sheilas in Oz were seriously stacked.’

The alliteration was no accident, he’d worked on it, tuned to gain max vexation.

All in the timing. Whatever else, Brant knew the value of timing. Roberts sighed, went:

‘When are you going to get over Australia?’

Brant feigned hurt then:

‘With all due respect, sir, you don’t get over Oz. Ask Bill Bryson.’

Roberts could give a toss who Bryson was, still it was a change if not an improvement that for once Brant wasn’t pushing Ed McBain. The old Penguin editions, the Eighty-seventh Precinct mysteries, Brant had owned them all, every blessed one. Till The Umpire destroyed them. An old case, never closed. Lately, Brant was obsessed with writing, fancied himself an English Joseph Wambaugh, would go:

‘Money in crime…’

Pause.

Big delivery:

‘Writing.’

Then the previous McBain,
Fat Ollie’s Book
, had accelerated Brant’s vision of the cop/author. He’d even bought
The Writers’ and Artists’ Year Book
, was trawling through agents and likely publishers.

Roberts asked:

‘Falls back yet?’

A black WPC. The wet dream of the nick, her star had spectacularly dipped. Suspected of offing a cop killer, a spell in rehab, a near lethal coke habit, and a lesbian fling with a bomber. She was barely clinging to her job. If she’d been white, she’d been gone. Brant dropped his cig in the cup, heard the sizzle, said:

‘They got her on that schools gig.’

The very bottom of the Met barrel. No, worse, out-side
the barrel, trying to reach the bottom. Certain assignments:

Traffic

Railton Road nights

Press liason

Were regarded as shite, but going into classrooms, telling apprentice muggers about the role of the police (as if they didn’t know the deal… cops beat on you, run your ass ragged). This gig was regarded as the last stop before dismissal. In fact it was dismissal, bar the shouting. Consigned to that dark side of the moon too was PC McDonald, once the Super’s golden boy and potential hatchet-man. He’d seriously fucked up and got shot into the bargain.

McDonald and Falls had a history, none of it good. They didn’t totally hate each other, but it was in the zone. Falls had hit on a shit pile of money and sent some of it to McDonald, anonymously, but he didn’t seem to have improved in any noticeable fashion. The other cops had a lottery going as to which would crack first. The pool was a healthy £500 and growing. If they both jacked, there was a double-indemnity clause.

Brant asked:

‘You put some money on?’

‘On Falls folding?’

A little alliteration himself, it was contagious. Roberts brushed at his suit, an old number from his married days and not wearing well, said:

‘I’m the Gov, how’d it be if I was betting on my squad jacking.’

Brant smiled, went:

‘It’d be smart.’

They were currently tracking a stolen-car ring and pressure was on as the superintendent’s Lexus had been taken. A number of false leads had increased the man’s ire. One of Brant’s snitches now claimed to have real information. Brant’s ‘informers’… finks, had a lethal record of getting wasted. The current one was still hanging in. Named Alcazar, known as Caz, he had a history of hanging-paper, dealing in dodgy travellers cheques. Various times he was from:

Puerto Rico

Honduras

South America.

What made him stand out from the herd was, he’d never done time.

He was short, with black hair, a dancer’s body, and hooded eyes.

He was from Croydon.

And man, he could dance:

flamenco

salsa

jive

la Macarena.

His choice of weapon was a stiletto, pearl-handled of course. He put oceans of Brylcreem in his hair and smoked Ducados like a good ‘un.

What you might call a fully rounded individual. He wore a huge, gold medallion of ‘Our Lady of Guadalupe.’

Roberts asked:

‘Who’s this source we’re meeting?’

Brant gave him the full wattage of his smile, said:

‘You’ll like him; he’s a dancer.’

And she’d got it. Nothing
.

—Jim Thompson, The Killer Inside Me

PORTER NASH HAD a new boyfriend.

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 pædophile 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
.

—Charles Willeford,
Cockfighter

HELLO AGAIN.

‘Uptown Ranking,’ remember that tune? Gets you juicing, gets that energy cranked. Yeah?

Had me a good one, sleep I mean. Took two Zanex with a double scotch, I was gone. Twelve hours straight.

You ever have to fly long distance, there’s your solution. I once flew to Thailand, hadn’t any pills, watched four movies cold. Yup, one after another. That’ll put you in the zone, give you the old red eye. I think Jack Nicholson was in one or all of them. I flew Thai Airways, they keep you subdued with food. I went to Thailand to get laid.

Doesn’t everyone?

Oh sorry, you probably love the culture.

Bollocks.

Try Paris, shit-head.

Whoops, I lost it there and I do apologize. But it does actually elucidate my crusade.

Which is:

To restore politeness. In Thailand, man, they have that shit down.

Even the flunkeys at the supermarket wear gloves and bow when you approach.

I shit thee not.

First few times, you’re a Londoner, think he’s taking the piss, might have to bang him up side the head. No, straight up, it’s the real deal. What happens is, you get used to it. I mean, even the bar-girls, before they suck you off, ask permission. Like you’re going to say no?

Then you get back to Blighty, the cricket’s gone to shit, Beckham has yet another ridiculous hairstyle, and the first person you meet goes: