The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead (7 page)

‘Hand jobs’ Kev called them. He’d go: ‘Suckin’ on yer hand job. I don’t see Mickey Dolenz smokin’, eh?’

Not a lot.

In truth, Albert didn’t like Mickey all that much. He reminded him of their father and that was the pinnacle of mean. The full down-in-the-gutter vicious bastard. Kev was forever sliding in anti-Monkee propaganda, to rattle the cage. As if he researched it! Like: ‘Hey Albert, you dozy fuck, that Mike Nesmith, the one with the nigger hat, he’s not hurtin’. His old lady invented Liquid Paper which crafty Mike sold the patent for. Yeah, the old lovable chimp got forty-seven million from Gillette. How about that for bucks, just a carefree guy, eh? No bloody wonder.’

And cloud city when Peter Tork went to jail for drug possession; Kev was delighted. Kept needling. Kept singing:

‘We’re just goofin’ around.’

When
The Simpsons
began to replace the TV show on major networks, Albert hated them double. ’Cos too, they were so ignorant. Homer Simpson was like Kev’s role model. Go figure. Albert had been down Brixton Market and – ye gods, hold the phones – he saw Mike Nesmith’s woolly hat on a stall, told the stall owner who said: ‘Mike who? I don’t know the geezer!’

‘From the Monkees!’

The guy took a hard look at Albert to see if it was a wind-up, then had a quick scan around, said: ‘Yeah, yeah, this is Mike Neville’s hat, the actual one.’

Albert got suspicious, said: ‘It’s Nesmith’s?’

‘Course it is son, but he uses Neville as a cover. Know what I mean, to avoid the fans like.’

‘Oh.’

‘Straight up, son. Any road, I couldn’t let it go.’

Albert had to have it, pleaded: ‘I have to have it.’

‘Mmmm. I suppose I could let you have it for twelve.’

‘I’ve only got this, a fiver.’

Which was fast snapped up, with: ‘It’s yours son, much as I hate to let it go.’

Later, the guy wondered if it was that tea commercial with the chimps, but he didn’t remember a hat. As if he gave a fuck anyway. He got out another dozen of them. Kev burnt it the same evening.

F
ALLS SAID TO ROSIE:
‘You know how much it’s gonna cost to bury Dad?’

‘Uh-uh. A lot?’

‘Two and a half grand.’

‘What? You could get married for that.’

‘And that doesn’t even include flowers or the vicar’s address.’

‘You have savings, right? You do have savings?’

‘Ahm...

‘Oh Lord, you’re skint!’

Falls nodded. Rosie searched for alternatives, then: ‘Could you burn him?’

‘What?’

‘Sorry, I mean, cremate him.’

‘He was against that.’

Rosie gave a bitter laugh. ‘C’mon girl, I don’t think old Arthur has really got a shout in this. He couldn’t give a toss what happens now, eh?’

‘I can’t. I’d feel haunted.’

‘Typical. Even in death, men stick to you. What about the Police Benevolent Fund?’

‘I’ve been. They’ll cough up part of the dosh, but seeing as he wasn’t one of the force...

Rosie knew another way but didn’t wish to open that can of worms. Or worm. She said: ‘There is one last resort.’

‘Anything. Oh God, Rosie, I just want him planted so I can move on.’

‘Brant.’

‘Oh no.’

‘You’re a desperate girl. He does have the readies.’ Then Rosie, to change the subject, patted her new hairstyle. It was de rigueur dyke. Brushed severely back, right scraped from her hairline to flourish in a bun. She asked: ‘So what do you think of my new style? I know you have to have some face to take such exposure.’

Falls gave it the full glare. She couldn’t even say it highlighted the eyes, a feature that should be deep hid, along with the rest. The eyes were usually a reliable cop-out. To the ugliest dog you could safely say: ‘You have lovely eyes.’ Not Rosie.

Falls blurted: ‘You have to have some bloody cheek.’ But Rosie took it as a compliment, gushed: I’ll let you have the address of the salon, they’ll see you on short notice.’ Falls wanted to say: ‘Saw you coming all right.’ But instead: ‘That’d be lovely’

Brant came swaggering in and Rosie said: ‘Oh, speak of the devil... Sergeant.’

And over he came, the satanic smile forming: ‘Ladies?’

‘WPC Falls has a request. I’ll leave you to it.’

And she legged it. Brant watched her, then said to Falls: ‘What the Jaysus happened to her hair?’

Shannon was in a café on the Walworth Road, not a spit from the old Carter Street Station. He’d ordered a large tea. As it came, an old man asked: ‘Is this seat taken?’

‘No, sir.’

The man was surprised, manners were as rare as Tories on that patch. He sat down and was about to say so when the young man said: ‘No umpire should be changed during a match without the consent of both captains.’

‘Eh?’

‘Before the toss the umpire shall agree with both captains on any special conditions affecting the conduct of the match.’

‘Ah, bit of a cricket buff are you?’

‘Before and during a match, the umpires shall ensure that the conduct of the game and the implements used are strictly in accordance with the laws.’

The old man wondered if he should move but there were no other seats. Plus he was gasping for a brew. He tried: ‘Day off work, ’ave you?’

The Umpire smiled, reached over and with his index finger, touched the man’s lips, said: ‘Time to listen, little man, lest those very lips be removed.’

Before the man could react, the Umpire stood up and came round the table, put his arm over the old man’s shoulders, whispered: ‘The umpire shall be the sole judge of fair and unfair play.’

The waitress, watching, thought ahh, it’s his old dad, isn’t that lovely? You just don’t see that sort of affection any more. It quite made her day.

As Brant sat with Falls, the canteen radio kicked in, Sting with ‘Every Move You Make’. Brant grimaced, said: ‘The stalker’s anthem.’

Falls listened a bit, said: ‘Good Lord, you’re right.’

He gave a nod, indicative of nothing. She got antsy, didn’t know where to begin, said: ‘I dunno where to begin.’

He took out his Weights. Asked: ‘D’ya mind?’

‘Personally no, but it is a no smoking zone.’

He lit up, said: ‘Fuck ’em.’ And waited.

Falls wanted to leave. A silent Brant was like a loaded weapon, primed. But she had no alternative. In a small voice, she said: ‘I’m in a spot of bother.’

‘Money or sex?’

‘What?’

‘It’s always one or the other, always.’

‘Oh, right, it’s money.’

‘How much?’

‘Don’t you want to know what for?’

‘Why, what difference does that make? I’ll either give it to you or I won’t, a story won’t help.’

‘It’s a lot.’

He waited.

‘It’s three thou.’

She never knew why she went the extra. Called it nerves, but didn’t believe it.

‘OK.’

She couldn’t believe it, said: ‘Just like that?’

‘Sure, I’m not a bank, you don’t have to bleed.’

‘Oh God, that’s wonderful, I’m in your debt.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘In my debt, like you said, you owe me.’

‘Oh.’

He got up to leave, asked: ‘Was there anything else?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll have the money by close of business – that OK with you?’

‘Of course. I –’

But he was gone.

B
RANT WAS IN THE
‘E’ room. Expecting a long run. Someone had hooked up a microwave. He looked through the goodies and found a Cornish pasty, muttered ‘Mmm,’ and put it in the micro. Zapped it twice and had it out. Took an experimental bite and stomped his foot, tears running from his eyes. The pasty, blazing, had fastened to the roof of his mouth. He grabbed a coke bottle and swallowed. Finally the burning eased and he said: ‘Jaysus.’

A passing WPC said: ‘Don’t touch the Cornish, Sarge, they’re way past their date.’

The phone rang and he snatched it: ‘Incident room “E”.’

‘Are you investigating the hangings?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘I have some information.’

‘Good, that’s good. And your name, sir?’

‘To prove I’m legit, check the last victim’s fingers.’

‘Might be a tad difficult, mate – sir.’

‘Because of the torching? I doubt that would disguise broken fingers. I’ll call back in an hour.’ And the caller hung up.

Brant was electric, got on to Roberts and the coroner. When Roberts arrived, he told him of the call and of the coroner’s confirmation: ‘The bugger was right, and what’s more, I’ve set up for a trace, he was ringing from a mobile, it kept breaking up. We’ll have him if he calls back.’

Roberts was impressed, said: ‘I’m impressed.’

Brant could feel his adrenaline building. It felt like a hit. Roberts took a seat. A picture of calm, he said: ‘Could be the one, the White Arrest.’

Brant had already raced to the same conclusion, was feeling generous in his victory: ‘For us both, Guv.’

‘No, this is all your own, another Rilke, maybe.’

The phone rang. Brant signalled to the technicians, who gave him the green light, and he picked up: ‘Incident room ‘E’.’

‘You checked the fingers?’

‘We’re just waiting for confirmation.’

‘We’re not criminals, we’re only doing what the courts are failing to do.’

Roberts made an S motion in the air. Stall.

‘Why don’t you come in, we’ll have a chat, work something out.’

But the caller was on a different track. ‘It wasn’t meant to be like this, you know, not white people. Not that I’m a racist.’

Brant tried it on. ‘Course you’re not, I mean you live in Brixton, right?’

Roberts shook his head, signalling U-turn. The caller continued: ‘I don’t think he’ll stop now, he likes it.’

‘But you’re different, I can tell. I mean why don’t you and I have a meet?’

There was static on the line, then a note of panic. ‘Shit, I’ve got to go. I’ll call again.’

And then the line died. Brant swore, looked pleadingly to the techs. They were engrossed for a moment, then gave the thumbs up, shouted: ‘Got him!’

Brant punched the air: ‘Yes!’ And a cheer came from the room.

A technician listened, wrote something down, then handed a piece of paper to Brant. He read aloud: ‘ “Leroy Baker”. Got yer ass, fucker.’ And reached for a phone.

Roberts was up, saying: ‘Wait, wait – what’s the name?’

‘Leroy Baker, we have him.’

Roberts took his arm, pulled him to the other side of the room, saying: ‘Listen, Tom.’

‘Fuck listen, let’s go – we’re on him.’

‘Tom, the name. It’s the first victim.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, he’s using the guy’s mobile.’

Brant sank into a chair, muttering: ‘The thieving scumbag, of all the low-down nasty bastards, I’d like five minutes... and he trailed off into silence.

The room had gone quiet. Roberts said: ‘What’s this, you’ve finished for the day? Get bloody on it!’

A half-hearted hum began to return, with furtive looks to Brant. Roberts touched his shoulder. ‘C’mon sergeant, I’m going to buy you a drink.’

N
INETEEN-SIXTY-FIVE. THE UMPIRE HAD
been a cricket sensation. As a schoolboy, he’d already been watched by the England selectors. Provision was made to ensure his talent was nurtured and developed. But...

If Albert of the ‘E’ crew was missing some vital pieces of human connection and born with a lack, then the Umpire was born with an extra dimension – a dimension of destruction. He liked to watch it burn. On the day of his first schoolboy accomplishments, he set fire to the pavilion. And got caught. His father beat him to a pulp and they put him away in a home for the seriously disturbed. They got that right. What they got wrong was releasing him. His first night home, his father took out all the press cuttings. All the stories of hope and triumph, then proceeded to whip him, ranting: ‘There’ll be no madness in this family.’

Could you beat insanity? It only drives it underground. Teaches the art of stealth. The first time the Umpire burned a dog, he couldn’t believe the rush, enhanced by such discovery. In his mind the words were etched: ‘See it burn.’

As the years passed, he began to look on the England team. The fame, publicity, accolades he felt were rightly his. It began to foment in his mind: if he couldn’t have the prizes, why should they? When he read
Day of The Jackal
he was elated. Then on to
The Dogs of War,
and as his psychosis came to full bloom he imagined himself to be Shannon, the hero of the book. Later, he thought, Frederick Forsyth would base a book on him.

•        •        •

Roberts studied the growing pile of paper on the Umpire, said: ‘I’ll get the murderer sooner or later. It’s always simpler when they’re insane.’

Brant said: ‘That’s a hell of a positive attitude. Way to go, Guv.’

A selfconscious Roberts blustered: ‘It’s a quote.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Thomas Gomez in
Phantom Lady.
’

‘Those old movies again, Guv, eh? It’s black-and-white, it’s a classic.’

‘Don’t be a daft bugger, sergeant. It’s film noir, never better than in the forties and fifties.’

Brant, already losing interest, answered: ‘You know, Guv.’

It wasn’t that Brant was an ignoramus, Roberts thought, but that he revelled in ignorance. His sole passion was to win. In his mind he played Robert Mitchum talking to Jane Greer in
Out of The Past
:

‘That’s not the way to play it.’

‘Why not?’

“Cause it isn’t the way to win.’

‘Is there a way to win?’

‘Well, there’s a way to lose more slowly.’

‘Ahhh.’

‘Guv. Guv!’ Brant’s harsh tone cut through his movie.

‘What?’

‘You’re muttering to yourself. Doesn’t look good.’

‘A privilege of rank.’

Brant was tempted to add: ‘Madness, more like.’ But he’d tested his cheek enough. For now.

F
IONA HAD ARRANGED A
‘coffee meet’ with Penny, her treat. She’d selected Claridges, to reach for the class she so desperately craved. It would have amused her to learn she shared a musical preference with WPC Falls. As she ordered a double cappuccino with cream, the words of ‘Misguided Angel’ ran through her head. The waiter was in his twenties and had the essential blend of surliness and servility. In short, a London lad. She admired his ass in the tight black pants and felt a flush creep across her chest. Since Jason, she was drenched in heat. He’d fit perfectly into the CA catalogue. The coffee came with all the prerequisites of the hotel. A mountain of serviettes with the Claridges logo, lest you lost your bearings, a bowl of artery-clogging cream and one slim biscuit in an unopenable wrapper. Penny arrived looking downright dowdy. Not a leg away from a bag lady. They exchanged air kisses. No skin was actually touched. Not so much consciousness of the age of AIDs as the fact that they were steeped in pretension.