‘Got to run.’
Falls went to stand, staggered, then:
‘I don’t even know your name.’
Over her shoulder, as she left, the woman said:
‘Angie.’
A car was parked up the street and Angie got in, the two brothers waiting. One asked:
‘How did it go?’
‘Piece of cake, she’s a lush.’
Ray, the smart one, asked:
‘Why did you have to be so rough when you grabbed me?’
‘Make it look real. She’s a cop, she’d smell a bogus stunt.’
Jimmy, the muscle, asked:
‘What do you want to meet a cop for?’
Angie tapped her forehead, said:
‘We want to know how the investigation is going, who better to tell us than a cop?’
Ray, negotiating traffic, was shaking his head, went:
‘Seems risky to me.’
“Course it’s risky, that’s the fucking rush.’
7
The second explosion was at a teenage disco, situated off Coldharbour Lane. A large hall had been converted by local builders, its aim to keep teenagers away from the main strip in Brixton. So now the kids hit the strip first, scored the dope, then went to the disco. Parents, delighted at the lack of booze, congratulated themselves on their efforts.
Two parents, acting as bouncers, were injured in the blast. The dynamite had been placed in a litter bin sited conveniently at the main entrance. The victims, covered in blood, were on the front page of all the papers with screaming headlines:
BOMBER TARGETS TEENS
Roberts, all control gone, was shouting:
‘They didn’t phone… why didn’t they bloody phone? I mean, play fucking fair, we never even got a chance to answer the ransom demand. What the hell is going on?’
No one knew. Roberts glared at his team. Porter Nash, clearing his throat, began:
‘I met with the Bomb Squad.’