Collie watched the funeral with a sense of awe. All the taxi drivers of south-east London had turned out for their murdered colleague. Each cab had a black ribbon tied to its antennae and they fluttered in the light breeze.
‘I caused this. They’re here cos of me.’
It was a heady sensation. Collie had figured he needed a dry run with the gun, to see if he had the balls. He did.
Kept it lethal and simple. Hailed a cab at The Oval, blew the guy’s head off at Stockwell. Then walked away. He couldn’t believe the rush. He hadn’t touched the takings — he was a professional, not a bloody thief.
The few days previous, he’d done his Brant research. All that required was hanging in the cop pubs. To say they were loose tongued was to put it mildly — numerous times he heard of Brant travelling home with a woman. Next he rang the station and, in his best TV voice said, ‘This is Chief Inspector Ryan of Serious Crimes at the Yard. We need the assistance of Sergeant Brant.’
Mention of the Yard did all the work. He was told the time and terminal of arrival. Now, on the day, he put on a black suit and dog collar, checked himself in the mirror and said, ‘Reverend …? You looking at me?’
At The Oval, he bought a ticket for Heathrow and The Big Issue to pass the journey. As he settled into his seat, the gun was only slightly uncomfortable in the small of his back.
A woman offered him a piece of chocolate and he said, ‘God bless you my child.’
At the airport, he checked the arrivals board and settled down to wait.
Over Heathrow, the plane was preparing to land. Brant said, ‘We’ve got to cuff up.’
‘I like bin chained to yah.’
‘Jaysus, girl!’
Then she lowered her head. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What?’
‘For yer trouble.’
‘Yeah … well …
In truth, he didn’t know what to say. Being sorry hardly cut it, but … He said, ‘Leastways you’ll get a decent cup o’ tea.’
‘Two sugars?’
‘Sure, why not?’
As Brant and Josie emerged into arrivals, he slung his jacket to hide the cuff. Collie saw them and thought: Holding hands. How sweet.
He moved up to the barrier, Brant vaguely clocked a priest and looked away. The gun was out and Collie put two rounds in Josie’s chest. The impact threw her back, pulling Brant along. Collie was moving fast and away, the gun back in his waistband.
Brant leant over Josie, saw the holes pumped by the dum dums and shouted, ‘Oh God!’
Collie was at the taxi rank and his collar allowed him to jump the queue. That, plus cheek.
‘Central London,’ he said.
His elation and adrenalin was clouded by what he’d seen. A handcuff? How could that be?
Then he realised the driver was talking … incessantly. Collie touched the gun and smiled.