Ammunition (14 page)

Andrews, the new gung-ho WPC, asked:

‘Liz, you eating that?’

Liz?… the fuck did she come off?

Falls, without breaking stride, said:

‘I’d skip it if I were you, I’ve noticed it goes right to your hips and… it’s Sergeant to you, got that?’

She did.

And muttered under her breath:

‘Cunt.’

Falls knocked lightly on Roberts’s door, heard:

‘It’s fucking open.’

Good sign.

Roberts had a mess of files on his desk, a half-eaten slice of Danish, many many cups of tea?… and he looked like he was on the verge of a heart attack. He looked up, his eyes were bloodshot, and she thought:

Uh-oh, back on the sauce and big time
.

He didn’t offer her a chair, barked:

‘This Happy Slapper, the photo gig, the mugging/mobile phone thing, how solid is that?’

She didn’t hesitate, said:

‘Rock.’

He gave her a long, cold look then asked:

‘You sure on that, Sergeant? You want to change your mind about anything, this is the time. You’ll lose yer stripes, but you’ll save yer job?’

Jesus, she felt sweat on her neck, down her back, her thighs, thought:

That prick Lane
.

Said:

‘No, sir, we got him bang to rights.’

Roberts leaned back, let out a weary sigh, said:

‘Lane, your colleague, says he didn’t see it go down. In other words, he’s bailing, so you’re out on yer fucking tod, no
backup, and I got to tell you, the press will be all over this. Last chance. Want to change your account, your report?’

She had to go with it. Said:

‘I stick with my report, the arrest was white.’

Meaning, a good one, fuck, a great one.

Roberts was scratching his head, then ran his big meaty hand through his hair, now almost white and getting spares, said:

‘McDonald is fucked. The witness on the old-age vigilante’s screw-up has positively identified him. It will be released in a few hours.’

Falls actually felt for McDonald, asked:

‘Isn’t there anything we can do. He’ll do jail time for this?’

Roberts seemed almost sad, no one liked to see the blue go down, he said:

‘Naw, he’s done and you get to tell him, give him time to get a lawyer, tell him get a real expensive one. He’s going to need the best.’

Falls was panicked. If they could throw McDonald down the shitter, what about her? She attempted:

‘Wouldn’t it be better, sir, if he heard it from you, you know, his commanding officer and all?’

Roberts had already dismissed her, was opening a file, said:

‘Never could stand the bollix.’

Falls went to the pub, she ordered a large Stoli, no fucking ice, thank you very much, and defintely no fucking
conversation. She gulped it down, ordered another, and the barman did consider a query but saw her expression, said:

‘Yes ma’am.’

‘Ma’am?’

She nearly laughed but the small death she was feeling prevented it. She went to the back of the bar, got out her mobile, and with a sinking heart, called McDonald.

I’ve got to die sometime so I may as well go this way.

—Crime boss Angelo de Carlo en route to prison at the age of sixty-seven

McDONALD FELT LIKE shite warmed over. He’d come to at the foot of his bed, still in his clothes.

Sort of.

His jeans were round his ankles, and he vaguely remembered bringing some babe home and… oh, Jesus, buying dodgy chicken from some street vendor, muttered:

‘Memo to dumb-arse self, NEVER… like never, buy stuff from these guys, and Christ, never eat the crap.’

Judging by the pool of congealed vomit, near his head, he’d eaten it… some anyway, as he spotted some green-looking meat with thin bones near the door, unless he’d offed the woman.

The way he was acting these days, fuck, anything was possible. He pulled his jeans off and then had to throw up, still on the floor, said:

‘Nice… real class, wouldn’t Mum be proud now.’

He crawled on his belly to the press near the bed, ripped open the door, and thank fuck, the silver wrap was still there.
He managed to organize a line, spilling white powder like dandruff, due to his shaking hands, and got a line or four done, if badly, kept saying:

‘So spill freely, we can inhale that later, just get the bastard thing into your system.’ Maybe being still half drunk helped, but the coke hit quick and the ice down his neck was a sign of better things to come. He lay on his back with a sigh of relief, vomit still on his chin, did he care?

Like fuck.

Shouted weakly:

‘I love nose candy.’

And he did.

Whether it loved him was a whole other metaphysical gig he wasn’t prepared to go into.

Ten minutes later, he did a few more, keep the am, lines of communication open, he was laughing intermittently now, knew it couldn’t be a healthy sign. AND AS COKE DICTATES, SOMETHING MAD, he went into his living room, which looked like the wreck of the
Hesperus
, rooted under some seat covers, and grabbed his newest possession.

A Makarov 9mm automatic, he’d bought it for what… ninety quid, from a Russkie he’d been drinking with, in some dive off the Railton Road. Ivan had told him it was the preferred weapon of the Eastern bloc agents.

Yada, yada, what the fuck ever, but did it work?

He’d meant to test it on the whore but kept getting wasted and forgetting.

The coke hit another level, of almost euphoria, and he said:

‘Happiness is a warm gun.’

Fucking Beatles, yeah. Even of Paul had his troubles, the wife having legged it.

Did he have any Beatles shit?

The phone rang, and he nearly shot himself in the foot, barely got his finger away from the release.

Picked up, it was Falls, and it flashed across his fevered brain, get her over, give her one, and then she told him:

He forgot all about the Beatles.

He was fucked, more so that McCartney and like bollocks, he never got to have a wife who could leg it.

Tears were running down his face. They were going to arrest him.

Him.

Once, the brightest star in the Met.

The Super had said so.

David Grey, on his album, had whined:

Something about where’d it all go wrong?

Ah, sweet Jesus.

He pleaded:

‘Falls, Liz, yeah, it’s Liz, right… what should I do, what can I do?’

He wanted her to save him, was that so damn hard?

There was a pause, and then she said:

‘Run’

He thought it must be the dope, he had music references
littered all over his head. Wasn’t ‘Run,’ the title of that Snow Patrol song?

Falls gulping the dregs of her double had the mobile slightly down from her ear, but she still heard the sound of the shot.

She would hear it for the rest of her life.

AS FALLS STORMED into the station, the cops got one look at her enraged expression and got out of her way.

Real fast.

Andrews, still smarting about the weight quip, got in her path and was literally shouldered aside.

The desk sergeant, never a Falls groupie, whispered:

‘On the rag, eh.’

If she’d heard that, he’d have eaten it.

Count on it

But perhaps there is karma, some kind of cosmic balance, as later that evening, watching his beloved Liverpool beat the shite outta Newcastle United, his telly blew up.

Go figure.

Falls didn’t knock on Roberts’s door, just barged in and before he could mutter:

‘What the… ’

She launched.

‘Well, Chief Inspector, I made the call, as you ordered, to McDonald, remember… he’s a cop.’

She paused, was that… is a cop or… was?

Roberts feigned indifference, his face showing,
shit happens
, he asked:

‘He want any help from you?’

She gave a smile, if a blend of rage and murderous intent can produce such, said:

‘I told him to run.’

Roberts gave a nasty chuckle and Falls wondered how she’d ever liked this prick. He said:

‘He’d be wise to take it.’

She had to physically rein herself in, a wave of bile rose in her gut, and she said, spinning on her heel:

‘Be a tad difficult with a fucking bullet in his skull.’

And she stormed out, slamming the door with all her might, hailed a cab, said to the driver:

‘Take me to The Clapham Arms.’

He wasn’t all that sure where it was, but something told him not to ask. He’d figure it out.

There were no smoking decals all over the taxi and as she put a cig between her lips, he ventured:

‘Wanna light?’

Little fanfare the exit make
Unheralded
is the lone departure

THESE LINES, FROM a little-known Irish poet, might well best describe McDonald’s exit from London.

The brass were quick to shut down the whole story, and a new terrorist alert kept the focus off some poor schmuck eating his gun.

Favours were called in, threats made, and the whole sorry episode was allowed to simper, slouch away.

McDonald ’s parents were told he was killed in a tragic accident, and they couldn’t afford to come down to London so the Met had him cremated and sent him by second-class mail from Paddington.

His mother put the urn over the fireplace, right beside a photo of Charles and Diana, no one had yet told her that Charles was married again, the odd visitor was a little startled to be told, that’s my boy there, on the mantelpiece.

Brant, on hearing the news, said:

‘Silly bugger.’

Roberts felt a daily sense of guilt.

Porter wished he’d known him better.

Falls, Falls went on a massive bender and midway through this, she was in a pub in Balham.

Balham?

Don’t ask.

It was a bender.

She’d hit that lucky third vodka where the hangover has abated and you’re even considering a touch of grub, considering, not actually going to eat.

A woman appeared, a young man in tow, said:

‘Hey, sweetie, might we join you?’

Angie.

The vixen.

And the young guy, Jesus, the bloke she’d framed for the Happy-Slapper gig. She was truly lost for words.

Angie was dressed to fuck, black leather mini, black boots, and a blouse that bore testament to the miracle of the Wonderbra.

Angie sat, said to the guy:

‘Be a dear, get some drinks in, and oh, a large vodka for our favourite policewoman.’

Falls rallied.

‘The fuck do you want, you crazy bitch?’

Angie laughed, nothing she liked better than warfare, she said:

‘To see you, darling. I get hot just remembering our love-making.’

And Falls felt her face burn. Must be the damn booze,
does that to you. Before she could utter a scathing reply, Angie said:

‘The young dreamboat with me, you know him, or course, I was hoping we might work out something, make this whole silly charge… how should I put it… evaporate?’

Falls took a deep swallow of her almost neat vodka, then:

‘Never happen. He’s going down and with any luck, you’ll be joining him.’

The guy was back, carrying a tray of drinks. He looked at Falls with pure hatred, plonked her drink down so it spilt, sat down, Angie cooed:

‘Liz, sugar, you remember John… John Coleman, the poor lamb you set up or do you set up so many you forget their names. He sure won’t forget yours.’

She squeezed his thigh, his eyes never left Falls, Angie continued:

‘We have a proposition for you, love. You drop this nonsense against John, and I won’t sell my night of torrid sex with black, recently promoted sergeant. Does that sound… reasonable?’

Falls was fucked, knew it, reacted by taking on the stare of Coleman, leaned over to him, said:

‘Keep looking at me like that and I’ll take your fucking sheep’s eyes out.’

He pulled back, way back.

Angie was thrilled.