The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead (10 page)

Brant and Roberts were positioned on the roof of St Mark’s Cathedral, a tactical position according to the Super.

‘Out in the bloody cold,’ snapped Roberts.

Brant, lowering his binoculars, said: ‘Good view, though, the
Big Issue
is selling nicely.’

‘We’re out of it Tom, the big boys are running the show. The game is a total media event now. See, we’d be on our arses altogether if they didn’t need local background.’

Brant didn’t care. The more the investigation built, the less notice he attracted. He asked: ‘Think they’ll get him?’

‘They have as much chance as you do of understanding cricket.’

‘I know a bit.’

Roberts opened a thermos, refilled their cups and asked: ‘Oh yeah? Who’s Allan Donald?’

‘Urn?’

‘Like I thought.’

‘Tell us, Guv, go on.’

‘The South African paceman offered mega bucks by Warwickshire to break the hundred-wicket barrier.’

‘He’s good then, is he?’

‘Good good? He claimed eighty-nine first class victims for the country in ’95. In ’96, in a summer off from country cricket, he took a hundred and six wickets to help Rishton retain a League title.’

Roberts’ voice had risen and he self-consciously pulled back, said apologetically: ‘I get a bit carried away.’

Brant found a sandwich, took a bite and said: ‘Don’t mean shit to me, Guv.’

Roberts went quiet, watched the funeral halt briefly, and he imagined all went still, a suspended moment when past glories, the sound of bat against ball and the hush of the crowd are recalled.

Brant said: ‘At a guess Guv, I’d say you haven’t suffered from the Paradise Syndrome.’

‘The what?’

‘You remember the Eurythmics, thin chick who looked like a faded Bowie and a hippy guy named Dave Stewart. Made fuckin’ shitpiles of money, that’s yer Paradise Syndrome right there.’

‘Lucky sod, I could do with a blast of such depression.’

They watched the huge line of cars and Brant said: ‘Me, I’d have to put one song to that funeral.’

‘What’s that then?’

‘“Brothers in Arms”, no contest.’

Brant began to scratch at his chest and Roberts watched, then said: ‘That’s it, you’re wearing a Met Vest. I thought you’d got fat.’

They were knife- and bullet-proof items issued to 30,000 officers. Needless to say, they hadn’t come cheap and they didn’t fit under the regulation shirts. Every officer had an issue of shirts and all of them had to be replaced.

It amused Roberts no end and he slipped into a near-pleasant mood. He reminisced: ‘The other night, Tom, when we had a few drinks, it was a bit of an eye opener.’

A now surly Brant tore at the vest, saying: ‘Bloody things. What? Oh, the other night, yes, I suppose. Me, though, when I go for a few bevvies, I hope it’s going to be a leg opener. I’m never wearing these vests again.’

A TV helicopter hovered above and the cameraman zoomed in on Roberts and Brant. The pilot asked: ‘Anything?’

‘Naw, just a couple of wankers.’

The discarded Met Vest lay on the roof of the cathedral, like a prayer that wasn’t said.

The notice read:
Annual Met Dance. Fancy Dress Preferred. Tickets £10. Buffet & Bar Till Late, ’60s Band. All Ranks Expected To Attend.
Roberts was staring at it when Brant came up alongside and said: ‘Sixties? Does it mean they’ve been around since then, which would mean they’ve got to be knackered.’

‘You sure have some odd thought processes, Sergeant. I dunno if that’s because yer Irish, a policeman or a weird bastard.’

A light hit Brant’s eyes. ‘Jeez Guv, I’ve had a brainwave.’

‘Yeah? You know who the Umpire is?’

‘Now listen, see that fancy dress? Here’s something... Roberts listened to Brant’s idea then exchanged:

‘I couldn’t... good Lord, sergeant, I mean, they’d think we were taking the piss.’

‘Ahm, c’mon Guv, it’s a wicked notion, you know it is, it’s downright – what’s the word you like – Nora?’

‘Noir. Yeah, it is a bit, lemme have a think on it.’

‘Nice one, Guv. You’ll see, it’ll be a gas.’

‘Mmm.’

N
OBODY LISTENS TO MANTOVANI,
I mean, get real. Not even Mantovani listens much anymore. He’s been consigned to the fifties rack and labelled miscellaneous.

But Graham Norman did, and all the time. His wife had given up joking about it and his kids just prayed the bastard never made it to CD. As captain of the England cricket team, Graham could indulge his whims.

He’d attended an indifferent public school, but ambition burned like the old values. He had a small talent and an unending thirst for practice, plus he knew how to please, especially the press. Early on, he sought them out, and when his ascent began, he took them along. He took up golf to cash in on his name link with Greg Norman. One of his proudest moments was immortalised in a framed photo of them together, with the caption ‘Two greats’.

He glanced round his study and felt near satisfied. For a south-east London boy, he’d come all the way. As the strains of Mantovani reached a feeble peak, his wife peered round the door, said: ‘For heaven’s sake, turn it down. I declare they’ll be playing him at your funeral.’

Words that would all too soon come to taunt and torment her.

•        •        •

As Brant left the station, a TV reporter approached.

‘DS Brant?’

‘Who’s askin’?’

‘I’m Mulligan, from Channel 5. I’ve been an admirer since you solved the Rilke case.’

Brant guffawed and the reporter stepped back. His hand behind his back, he signalled the cameraman to roll it.

‘I said something funny, DS?’

‘Mr Mulligan. No relation to the Gold Cup winner, I suppose?’

‘I’d like to ask your views on the cricket killings.’

‘No comment, boyo, not my case.’

But off the record, what sort of man do you think is behind this?’

‘A nutter. One of those bed wetters. Hey, are you filming?’

‘Thank you, Detective Sergeant Brant.’

It aired at prime time and among the viewers was the Umpire. The very next day he began to follow Brant. It wasn’t in his plan yet to kill policemen, but his rage was such that he felt compelled. Two days later he was at vigil outside Brant’s flat when the sergeant emerged with a very mangy dog on a battered leash.

Watching them, he could see the mutual affection. It looked as if someone had attempted to shear the animal. But even the Umpire could sense they made a pair, odd and bizarre but suited. He knew then how to hurt the policeman. Down the street, the dog’s heart leapt as his idol said: ‘C’mon Meyer, I think it’s saveloy and chips for two, eh? Whatcha fink, extra portions? Yeah, me ’n’ all.’

It had happened like this: Brant had parked his car on double yellow lines. A traffic warden materialised out of the sewer. Had the book open, was already writing.

Brant flashed his warrant card, said: ‘Get a real job, Adolf.’

As the warden slunk back to his yellow lair, Brant headed for his flat. A howl of pure anguish pierced his skull and he whirled round, muttering: ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what is that?’

An alley beside Brant’s building seemed to be the source. There as another howl of such pain that he felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He moved faster.

A man with a pick-axe was beating a dog with slow, measured intent. Brant shouted: ‘Oi, you!’

The man turned, a smile on his face. Well-dressed in a casual way, a knock-down Armani jacket, subdesigned jeans, Nikes. About fifty, he looked like your friendly uncle. Well, your friendly uncle with a pick-axe handle. He said: ‘You want some of this, is that it?’

‘Yes please,’ said Brant, and pushed him.

The pick-axe handle went high and to the right. Brant flinched, stepped to the left and dealt two rapid power punches to the kidney. That’s all she wrote.

Brant bent down, rummaged in the man’s jacket, extracted a wallet, flipped it open. Read: ‘Swan’, looked at the man, then added, ‘Sorry, MISTER fuckin’ Swan. Says so right here. See me boyo I’ve a white shirt, but I’ve a blue collar soul. That means I like dogs.’

As the man’s pain eased, his attitude returned and he smirked: ‘I’ll have the police on you mate.’

‘I am the bloody police, and this –’ he took a wedge of notes from the wallet ‘– is for the RSPCA.’

Brant went over to the dog and said gently: ‘Can you walk boy?’ Clumps of hair had been torn from the creature, and there was a large bald patch. Brant stroked him softly, said: ‘You’re the spit of Meyer Mayer, as bald as an egg.’

Brant was chewing on a slice of pizza, the rest he’d hand fed to Meyer. He was saying: ‘I’m a man in his eens. No, not teens, listen up fella, it’s caff-eine, nicot-ine, non-prot-een that’s made a man of me. You only need to remember one thing about pizza: bite the delivery boy’s ankles. Yeah, like Norman Hunter in his day. There was a card, none of yer Ryan Giggs preciousness. Or here, Dave Prouse, a London boy. Played Darth Vader. Didn’t know that, eh? Want some beer?’ Meyer hadn’t known, and yes to the drink. He liked how it made him dizzy. And shit, he could bite ankles, would welcome the chance.

Brant, lost in wonder, said: ‘Jeez, old Dave didn’t know what
Star Wars
was gonna do, so he took a flat fee. Three large. But Alec Guinness, he opted for a percentage, has got over a hundred million so far. Make you bloody howl, eh?’

Silence descended as man and dog chewed, pondering the sheer awfulness of chance.

Outside, the Umpire kept vigil, his mind in flames.

Brant was washing Meyer in the bath, said: ‘You’re a babe magnet.’ He’d heard that walking a dog was a sure way to meet women. You exchange phone numbers over leashes and later you did it over the doggy bowl. The other way was supermarkets. Jeez, even Falls had scored there. So OK, she got a security guard, which was kinda rolling yer own, but what the hell. Who’s keeping score? The bath didn’t alter Meyer radically. Now he was a clean, balding animal, like a
Time Out
reader. Meyer stared at Brant with a look of ‘it ain’t gonna work’.

And Brant said: ‘Hold the phones buddy, you gotta have magnetism, draw them in with scent,’ and blasted Meyer with Old Spice. He could almost hear the Beach Boys’ ‘Surfin Safari’, and began to hum it. Not the easiest tune to solo.

As the smell of spice wafted forth, Brant said: ‘Hey, not bad,’ and gave himself more than a generous dollop. When they hit the common you could have smelled them coming. If dogs could strut, then Meyer tried. And sure, the women were out en masse, both dogged and dog-less.

Alas, the boyos didn’t score. In fact, one woman said: ‘You barbarian, ought to be arrested for mistreating that animal.’ But Brant took it well, almost waxed philosophical, said: ‘Might have over done after-shave a tad.’

Babe-less, they headed for the chip shop. The Umpire clocked their progress. Brant might have noticed but he’d already decided it was best they didn’t score. Now he could focus on Fiona Roberts. She might have a dog. She already had a husband.

B
RANT SAT DOWN TO
his breakfast. He’d prepared a mega pot of tea, a mountain of toast, four sausages, black pudding and a badly fried egg. He’d got a wok from cigarette coupons and used it for everything. All the fry had been blasted together and as he studied the mess, he said: ‘Lookin’ good!’

The dog sat looking at him. William James once said if you want to know about spirituality, look into a dog’s eyes. Alas, William never tried to outrun the Rotweillers in Peckham or stare down the Railton Road pit bulls. What was in the dog’s eyes was love and gratitude. This man had saved his sorry ass, he knew that. Now if he could only train him, and eating from the wok direct would be a great beginning. He tried to communicate this to the man.

Brant forked a wedge of sausage and said: ‘Tell you something, Meyer. I’ve had some dogs in this gaff, but you’re the first bald one.’ In McBain’s 87th Precinct mysteries, Meyer Meyer is a Jewish detective with not a hair on his head.

Meyer Meyer was already a little legend in the nick. It was even suggested Brant had gone soft. True, he’d felt enormous emotions he’d thought were tight locked away. But it was fun, he got a buzz out of it. The ribbing and piss-taking didn’t bother him. Of course it was held in check, since with Brant you never knew. Even Roberts got wind and asked: ‘So, Sarge, what’s the story with the Rin-Tin-Tin?’

‘Meyer Meyer.’

‘What?’

‘See, you’d know if you’d read yer McBain. But oh no, not Nora enough, eh?’

‘That’s
noir
, N-O-I-R!’

‘Whatever.’

‘Where is it then, I mean during the day?’

‘Out, he goes out, but he’s always waiting when I get home.’

Roberts was quiet and then added wistfully: ‘It must be good to have someone waiting.’

When Brant got home that evening, there was no dog.

Brant was mid pie-man’s lunch when Roberts called him. ‘Can’t it wait Guv, I’m in the middle of me dinner here.’

‘No.’

‘Ah, shit.’

When they got outside Brant asked: ‘Where’s the bloody fire then?’ Roberts gave him a startled look, then said: ‘There’s been an... incident, one of your neighbours called in. The uniforms are at the scene.’

When they got there Brant pushed ahead up the stairs. The stench was appalling. What remained of the dog was barely recognisable, smoke still trailing slowly up. Brant turned back, said: ‘Ah... Jesus!’

Roberts bundled him outside, got him the car, rummaged in the back, produced a thermos, poured a cup, said: ‘Take this.’

‘Don’t want it.’

‘It’s brandy’

‘OK.’ And he let it down. After a moment, Brant produced his Weights, but the tremor in his hand prevented him lighting.

‘Give it ’ere, Tom.’ Roberts lit the cigarette in Brant’s mouth, then said: ‘The dog. I mean your dog... he was covered in a white coat.’

‘So?’

‘A knee-length white coat. It was singed but not burned.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Well, like we were meant to see it.’

‘Jeez, Guv, so bloody big deal.’

‘Tom, it’s an umpire’s coat.’