Free The White Trilogy: A White Arrest, Taming the Alien, The McDead by Ken Bruen

look, then asked: ‘Tea or coffee, boyo?’
    ‘Ahm, tea, I think.’
    Brant snorted: ‘Well, it won’t come to you lad, hop up there and gis a refill, two sugars.’
    The canteen lady, named Doris, gave Tone a wink, said: ‘Watch ’im.’
    When he returned, Brant said: ‘Lovely job’, and took a gulp, went: ‘Jaysus you never stirred it.’
    Which was true. Then he took out his Weights, said: ‘I’d offer you one but it’s a smoke-free zone,’ and lit up. Tone tasted his tea. It was like coffee or turpentine or a cunning blend of both. Brant leaned over, asked: ‘Do you want to get on, boyo, eh? Are you ambitious?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Good, that’s good. I have a little job for you.’
    ‘I’m ready, sir.’
    ‘Course you are, a fine strappin’ youth like you. You’ll sire legions.’
    ‘Sir?’
    ‘Now, there’s two dossers, male and female. In their late twenties. They have their pitch in the Elephant and Castle tunnels. They wear band aids on their faces. I want their names, their squat, who they run with, any previous. Got that?’
    ‘Yes sir.’
    ‘Well, don’t hang about lad, get crackin’.’
    Tone stood up, perplexed, then: ‘But sir... Why? Have they done owt? What’s the reason?’
    Brant held up a hand, palm outward: ‘Whoah, Sherlock, hold yer water. The reason is I asked you – d’ya follow?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘That’s the job, and oh, Tome...
    ‘Tone, sir. It’s an ‘n’.’
    ‘Whatever. Mum’s the word, eh?’
    When the constable had gone, Brant said, and not quietly: ‘Fuckin’ maggot.’

Room mate?
A hammering likely to wake the very dead
    F ALLS WAS DREAMING OF her father when the hammering began at her door. Awakening, she checked the time, 3.30am, and heard in disbelief: ‘Open up, this is the police.’
    Throwing on a robe, she went to the door and opened it on the safety chain. Brant.
    ‘What the – ?’
    ‘I bring you greetings.’
    She could smell the wave of liquor and he looked demented. She said: ‘Sergeant, this is hardly an appropriate hour.’
    ‘I need a kip.’
    And she figured: ‘Pay up time.’
    Before she could protest, he said: ‘Don’t be a cow. I’ve been turned over. I’ll sleep on the couch.’
    Reluctantly, she opened the door. He slouched in, muttering: ‘McBain, Hunter, all done in.’
    ‘Your friends?’
    And he gave what she could only describe as a cackle and said: ‘Friends? Yes, yes. I believe they were, and better than most.’ He flopped down on the couch, said: ‘Jay-sus, I need some sleep. Get the light would you?’ And within minutes he was snoring. She got a blanket from her bed and as she put it over him she saw the gun in his waistband. Afraid he’d do damage, she reached for it, only to have her wrist seized. He said: ‘Don’t handle my weapon.’
    As she tried to regain her sleep, she wished: ‘Hope he shoots his balls off.’
    Falls prided herself on the flat being a ‘smoke free zone’. Even her old dad, no matter how pissed, never had the bottle to light his ‘home-mades’ there. Now she woke to the stench of nicotine, clouds of it hung in the air. Storming out to the living room, she found Brant wrapped in her best towel, a cigarette dangling on his lips. He said: ‘Breakfast’s made. Well, sort of. I’ve boiled the water. Whatcha fancy, coffee all right?’
    ‘No thank you, I’m a tea drinker.’
    As she went into the kitchen, he observed: ‘Jay-sus, you’ve got a big arse, haven’t you?’
    The kitchen was a ruin. Used cups, stained teatowels, opened jars left everywhere. He strolled in after her, asked: ‘How’d it go then?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘The funeral.’
    ‘Oh. Great. No, I mean OK, it was small.’
    ‘He was a small man, eh?’
    She glared at him: ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’
    ‘Did Roberts go?’
    ‘Yes, him and Mrs Roberts.’
    ‘Ah, the lovely Fiona. I could ride that.’
    She slammed a cup on the sink, said:
    ‘Really, Sergeant. Are you trying to be