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

mood, said: ‘Well, we’ve got a shoplifter in an interview room.’
    He turned his full gaze to her. He spoke slowly: ‘That’s some sort of levity, I gather. How about this, WPC! Hop lightly to yer plod feet, go interview them and get out of my bloody sight!’
    Roberts had thus made two mistakes. The first was not seeing the shoplifter. The second was alienating the hitherto loyal Falls.

‘Ashen was the way I felt when shunned by people I had justified. Didn’t all that much really warrant grief.’
The Umpire
    T HE UMPIRE’S FATHER HAD adorned the house with framed portraits of cricket’s greatest. A who’s-who of the best. He’d point to them and shout: ‘You could have been better than any of them, but oh no, you’re a namby pamby, a mummy’s boy. You’ll never hold a light to these, these giants.’ Light, a light to light. He looked on it like a mantra of darkness.
    His father’s pride was a three-year-old setter named Fred Truman. Sleek and arrogant, it ruled with ease. The day of the Umpire’s transformation, he recalls it like a vision.
    The Dogs of War was showing on BBC1. The screen’s image flicking back and forth across Fred Truman as he dozed. The Umpire had removed his father’s bat from the glass case and said: ‘Here boy, come and get it.’ As the dog’s head reared, the Umpire batted. He heard the crowds leap to their feet at Lords, the applause crescendoed at the Oval and the dog lay stunned. The Umpire laid the bat beside Fred and doused both with petrol. On the TV Christopher Walker loaded up as the match ignited, the words rose: ‘Cry havoc and let loose the dogs of...
    •        •        •
    Falls sat opposite her, put the file on the table and decided to ‘Brant’ it. Said: ‘Well, Penny or Penelope, which?’
    No answer.
    ‘Okey-dokey, let’s settle for Penny, shall we?’
    No answer.
    ‘You’re going to jail, Penny.’
    Gasp!
    ‘Oh yes. I see you’ve been up twice before but got off on probation. Says here you agreed to have therapy. I hate to tell you, it isn’t working.’
    ‘I can’t. I can’t go to prison.’
    ‘I’m afraid so, Pen. The courts are sick of rich middle-aged women wasting their valuable time. You’ll do six months in Holloway. The girls there, they’ll appreciate a bit o’ class. Get yerself a nice lez, knit away the winter.’
    Penny began to smile, said: ‘Oh, I don’t think so, you see, I have something to trade.’
    ‘This isn’t the bloody market, we don’t barter.’
    ‘Don’t be so sure. I need to see someone in authority.’ Here she gave extra dimension to the smile as she added: ‘I don’t think it’s really a decision for the indians. Go get the chief, there’s a good girl.’
    Falls came close to clouting her, and realised that Brant might have the right idea. She rose and left the room, still wondering whether or not to go to Roberts. Two factors determined her next move: one, her anger at Roberts; two, almost colliding with Brant.
    He said: ‘Whoa, little lady, don’t lose yer knickers.’
    She told him, watched his face and calculated. He said: ‘I’ll have a word, shall I? You keep watch outside.’
    ‘Shouldn’t I be present?’
    ‘Outta yer league, darlin’. Tell you what though, I could murder a cuppa.’ And he opened the door, looked back and said: ‘Two sugars, love.’
    Brant sat down slowly, his eyes on Penny. She said: ‘You’re a senior officer?’
    He gave the satanic smile, asked in his best south-east London voice: ‘Whatcha fink, darlin’?’
    ‘I think you look like a thug.’
    ‘That too! So, honey –’
    She snapped. ‘Don’t you dare call me that. I’m not your honey.’
    ‘Leastways not yet. Whatcha got?’
    She got foolish and attempted to slap him. He caught her wrist and with the other hand double palmed her. The marks of his hand ran vivid on her cheeks. He asked: ‘Have I got your attention now?’
    She nodded.
    ‘Okey-dokey, babe. What’s