Her Last Call To Louis MacNeice by Ken Bruen Page A

jackets. Even at market prices, it burned a hole. Back to change and in the new gear I felt, if not renewed, at least ready. Said aloud, ‘Let’s burn a cop,’ and picked up the phone. Got the number of Scotland Yard, dialled, asked for the serious crime division. Put on hold, then a gruff voice: ‘Can I help?’
    ‘I dunno, you might want to hear that a detective named Noble, outa Carter Street, was helping an accountant named Arnold L. White. Mr White has been behind the series of bank raids up and down the country.’
    Silence. What did I expect … glee? When a cop is ratted out, they like it as much as duty in Brixton, then, ‘And your name is …’
    ‘Concerned Citizen.’
    Snort!
    Which sound seemed appropriate to hang up on. I didn’t expect they’d rush out and nick Noble but, with the hooker’s call later, I wanted to muddy the water. Give the bad fuck something to suck mints about.
    My hands were wet from tension. I should have known that a call like that wasn’t going to be simple. When they own you for two years, the automatic responses never fully fade. Like walking into a snake pit having previously been bitten and saying – ‘it won’t hurt so bad.’ Dream on sucker.
    Almost immediately the phone rang and I jumped – ‘bloody hell,’ they’re on to me already?! Picked it up, said tentatively, ‘Yeah.’
    ‘David.’
    ‘Cassie.’
    ‘You recognised me lover, that’s promising.’
    ‘How’d you find me?’
    ‘In the book.’
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘You met my brother.’
    ‘Jeez, what is this – you have private investigators on me?’
    ‘You’ve a high profile honey. So, has he been shooting you a line, telling you I’m whacko and stuff.’
    ‘He’s concerned – where are you?’
    ‘I’m real close baby, but you get the hell away from him. You hear what I’m saying?’
    ‘Or wot … you’ll burn my house down …’
    The line went dead.
    The hooker, Sharon, lived at Waterloo. Those small houses near the bridge, like a real Coronation Street. Rang the bell and she answered immediately. In her mid-forties, she was a brunette with trowelled on make-up. Carrying weight that looked like it was going to increase and wearing a lurex tracksuit, she said, ‘Jim’s mate, right?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘You seem disappointed, was I supposed to brassen up. I thought this was other biz, not a shag call.’
    ‘Can I come in?’
    ‘Sure darlin’.’
    And she sounded like a hooker then. A husky voice that was only part fake. Led me into a living room, it looked cosy like a home and she noticed my approval, said, ‘You were expectin’ a bordello.’
    ‘I expect very little.’
    ‘Can I get you something – tea, a drink.’
    ‘No … just a phone call. I have it written down, you just read it, I pay you and I’m gone.’
    ‘You up to a little action?’
    ‘Not today.’
    ‘You’re one of those men, don’t pay for it … right?’
    ‘Sharon, let’s quit the analysis. You shut the fuck up, read the script and we’re done, can you do that.’
    ‘Let’s do it.’
    I handed her the sheet of paper, she read it but skipped comment. I gave her the number. Here’s what she read: ‘Metropolitan Police … yeah, can you put me on to the robbery division.’
    She gave me a sick smile as she was put on hold, then, ‘I have information regarding the country-wide bank jobs.’
    Hold again. She clicked her fingers, indicated a pack of Major and matches. I loved those clickin’ fingers but got her one and handed it to her. The phone was now nestling between her chin and shoulder, so beloved of broads in movies and busy folks everywhere, she hissed, ‘The matches …’
    Yeah.
    I lit the cigarette and she drew dust from the very carpet. Her face contorted and was followed by a horrendous cough. One of those lungs to the roof of the mouth jobs. She spoke again. ‘Let’s say I was involved with one of the guys OK … yeah … fucked me over … get the picture. Hey, if you want to hear this or