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

deliberately offensive?’ He gave a look of near-innocence.
    ‘Me? Listen babe, don’t get yer knickers in a twist, this is my good side.’
    She looked at him with distaste, said: ‘Your chin is bleeding.’
    He wiped at it with an end of the towel, her favourite white fluffy one, said: ‘Them lady razors, near tore the face offa me.’
    Another item for the bin, she sighed. He stood up, said: ‘I need to ask your... co-operation.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘If certain items – shall we say information – about the big cases, arrive, I’d appreciate a nod before it gets to Roberts.’
    ‘I don’t know, Sarge, I mean...
    ‘C’mon Falls. I’m not asking much. He’ll be informed. Eventually.’ Without another word, he went into the sitting room, dressed, and presented himself, asking: ‘How do I look?’
    ‘Er...
    ‘Yeah, I thought so. I’ve got to go chat to a junkie.’
    She felt she’d been a tad cold, nay harsh, and tried to pull back a bit. In the hall, she said in a soft voice: ‘Sarge, thanks for not, you know, trying it on.’
    ‘Hey, I don’t jump the help, OK.’
    Roberts had watched a documentary on Francis Bacon. He especially liked Bacon’s cry when he entered a club in Soho: ‘Champagne for my real friends. Real pain for my sham friends’. He was about to experience some major pain himself. The Chief Super was having more than a piece of Roberts’ hide and kept repeating: ‘I’m not the type to say “I told you so”.’
    He was crowing over the ‘solution’ to the cricket murder. Roberts was seething, said quietly: ‘Oh, it’s been solved?’
    ‘Don’t take that tone with me, laddie. It’s solved as far as we’re concerned.’
    Roberts wanted to shout: ‘Fuck you, sir, fuck the brass and the chain of command and the politicians.’ But he said: ‘If you say so, sir.’
    ‘I do say so. Our American cousins talk about bottom feeders. Are you cognizant with it?’
    ‘Bottom of the shit pile, sir, would that be close?’
    ‘Brant, now he’s a good example. Look here.’ And he threw a document across the desk, said: ‘The yard have been on to me. Your precious Detective Sergeant is accused of bribe-taking by a Mr Patel, of intimidation by a tobacconist in the West End, of brutality by an accused rapist, of freebies by a pizza company... the list goes on.’
    Roberts barely glanced at it, said: ‘Nickel and dime. He’s a good copper.’
    ‘He’s finished, that’s what he is. I doubt even a cream arrest could save him.’
    ‘That’s white, sir. A White Arrest.’
    ‘Are you sure? Well, I want to ensure he doesn’t pull off one of those. So you’re back in charge of the vigilante business. See it’s put to bed quickly.’
    ‘Put to bed, sir?’
    ‘Get on with it, and I’ll remind you of thin ice yourself, questions have been asked before.’
    With that he was dismissed. Outside he ran his finger along the rim of his ear. A passing WPC asked: ‘All right, sir, your ear I mean?’
    ‘Oh yeah, I’ve just had a flea put in it.’

The law of holes: when you’re in one, don’t dig
    A LL HELL ERUPTED AT the station as the news of the murder broke. The Super charged down the corridor, barged into Roberts’ office, roared: ‘You’re in for it now, laddy, there’s been another one.’
    Roberts wanted to say, ‘I told you so’, but instead came running, said: ‘Someone surprise me, tell me Brant is here and reachable.’ Nobody surprised him.
    The down-scaled ‘U’ incident room was activated and Roberts was given the details of the killing. He asked: ‘Any witnesses?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘The weapon?’
    ‘A crossbow, Guv.’
    ‘Bloody hell. Wait until the press get wind of this.’
    Silence.
    ‘What, they’re on to it already?’
    ‘Sorry, Guv.’
    ‘Holy shit, we’re fucked. So no chance of containment, the ol’ damage limitation?’
    Many heads shook. Negative all the way.
    Roberts sat, said: ‘Isn’t there any good news?’
    Falls tried to lighten the