‘Tonight… tonight… tonight… we go… oh yeah.’ On the floor, he’d spread a tarpaulin, and now JL began to lay weapons down: two sawn-offs, one canister of CS gas, three baseball bats and a mess of handguns.
He looked to his brother first, said: ‘OK, Albert, pick yer poison.’ Al took a handgun, tested it for weight, and then jammed it in the back of his jeans. Kev whistled: ‘Very fucking cool. Mind how you sit down.’
He snatched the sawn-offs and chucked them to Doug and Fenton, said: ‘’Cos you guys are a blast.’
He took the handguns and, holding them down by his sides, added: ‘No need for the bats, eh? This is purely a shooting party’ Albert smiled, thought of the gun he’d looted. Now he’d be truly loaded.
Fiona Roberts knew her marriage was bad, and often woesome. But she was determined to keep it. If it meant lying down with the dogs… or dog, then she’d suffer the fleas. She wasn’t sure how to dress for a blackmail date. Did you go mainline hooker or bag lady? A blend of the two perhaps. When Brant had said he wished to ‘woo’ her, she’d nearly laughed in his pig face. But instinct had held her tongue and she knew she could maybe turn everything round. So she agreed, he was to pick her up at Marble Arch. Ruefully she reflected it was a hooker’s landmark. A cab took her there and, as she paid the fare, the driver said: ‘Bit cold for it, luv.’
‘How dare you!’
‘What?’
‘Your implication. I don’t think I know what you are saying.’
‘Get a grip, darlin’. I didn’t mean nuffink unless civility has been outlawed.’
‘Hmmph!’
She slammed the door and he took off with her tenner.
Brant was turning into the Arch with the radio blaring. Chris Rea was doing ‘Road to Hell’ and Brant hoped it wasn’t an omen. He stopped, flung open the door, shouted: ‘Hiya, ducks!’
She’d been expecting the Volkswagen Golf, but realised he’d keep her on the hop. As she got in she saw him eying her legs but refrained from comment. Without a word he did a U-turn and swung back towards Bayswater. A highly dangerous move.
She said: ‘Illegal, surely?’
‘That’s part of the rush.’
She smoothed her dress over her legs and he asked: ‘Hungry?’
‘Why, have you another greasy spoon to slum in?’
‘Hey!’ And he gave her a look. She could have sworn he appeared hurt and she thought: ‘Good.’
He swerved to avoid a cyclist and said quietly: ‘I’ve booked at Bonetti’s.’
She didn’t say anything, and he added: ‘Well?’
‘Well what? I have never heard of it.’
‘It’s in the Egon Ronnie.’
‘Ronnie? That’s Ronay.’
‘Whatever, I thought you’d be pleased.’
And she was, kind of.
Roberts got the call before six. ‘Chief Inspector Roberts, is that you?’
‘Yeah.’
This is Governor Brady, over Pentonville.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘I have a chappie on B wing, might be of interest to you.’
‘Why?’
‘You are still in charge of the Umpire investigation, aren’t you?’ A note of petulance crept in as he added: ‘I mean you are interested in solving the cricket business?’
‘Of course, absolutely. I’m sorry, it’s been a long day.’
‘Try a day in the Ville sometime.’
Roberts wanted to shout: ‘Get on with it, fuckhead,’ but he knew the butter approach was vital, and with a trowel, said: ‘You do a terrific job there, Governor, it can’t be easy.’
‘That’s for sure.’
‘So, this man you’ve got, you think he might be our boy?’
‘He says he is.’
‘Oh.’
‘Came in yesterday on a GBH. We had to stick him on B because of his psychotic behaviour.’
‘Might I come see?’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
When Roberts put down the phone, he didn’t feel any hope. They were up to their asses in Umpires, all nutters and all bogus. But he’d have to check it out.
As Brant parked the car, he said: ‘This Volvo is like my ex.’
‘Yes?’
‘Too big and too heavy.’
‘Gosh, I wonder why she left you.’
The maitre d’ made a fuss of them, placed them at the best table, said: ‘Always glad to be of service to our police.’
Fiona sighed. The restaurant was near full and a hum of conversation carried. Two huge menus were brought. She said: ‘You order.’
‘Okey-dokey.’
A young waiter danced over and gave them a smile of dazzling fellowship. Brant asked: ‘What’s the joke, pal?’
‘Scusi?’
‘Jeez, another wop. Give us a minute, will yer?’ A less hearty withdrawal from the waiter. Fiona said: ‘You have such magnetism.’
‘That’s me all right.’ Then he clicked his fingers, said: ‘Yo, Placedo!’ And ordered thus: starters, prawn cocktails; main, marinated Tweed salmon with cucumber salad and a pepper steak, roast and jacket potatoes; dessert, pecan sponge pie with marmalade ice-cream; wine, three bottles of Chardonnay.
The waiter looked astonished and Brant said: ‘Hey wake up, Guiseppe, it won’t come on its own.’
Fiona didn’t know what to say said: ‘I dunno what to say.’
‘Yer man, light on his feet I’d say.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘An arse bandit, one of them pillow biters.’
‘Oh God.’
The food began to arrive, and the first bottle of wine. Brant poured freely, raised his glass, said: ‘A toast.’
‘Good heavens.’
‘That too.’
She was glad of the alcohol and drank full, asked: ‘Do you hate my husband so much?’
‘What?’
‘You must do. I mean, all this.’
‘He’s a good copper and straight. This isn’t to do with him.’
‘Why, then? Surely it’s not just a fuck.’
He winced at her obscenity, put his glass down slowly, then said: ‘It’s about class. I never had none. You have it. I thought it might rub off.’
‘You can’t be serious.’