‘Why?’
‘’Cos we can.’
Roberts glanced round the room, saw the stone expressions, said:
‘You want payment, you’ll have to play by some rules.’
Silence and he thought the call had ended, then a harsher tone:
‘You fuck-face, you mind if I call you that? Not that it matters, you’re a messenger boy, got it? Your function is to act as bagman. We want six large.’
‘What?’
‘Two explosions — this shit is expensive. Time and money, you get my meaning? But hey, I can lighten up, cut you some slack. How would it be if I give you 48 hours, say Friday evening, round 6.00? I’ll give you a bell, that help at all?’
Roberts took a deep breath, tried to rein in his rage, said:
‘I’ll need more time.’
‘No can do, fellah.’
Click.
Roberts put the phone down, said:
‘See if there’s any hope of a trace. Not that I expect one.’
No trace.
9
Falls came to with a bad hangover. She was wearing a long old Snoopy T-shirt that had been washed so often the dog was no longer distinguishable. Her mouth was like a desert and she went to the kitchen, gulped a glass of water. It hit her stomach like ice and she retched, said:
‘That’s it, I’m never drinking again, least not on week nights.’
This was a familiar mantra: as comfortable as it was bogus. She began to boil some water, thinking tea would help, at least wake her up.
She was up for a new assignment. Word was that a new WPC was coming on board and Falls would be nursemaiding her. Of all the duties she loathed, this was the one she loathed most. All that enthusiasm, the high ideals and the spirit of camaraderie they expected. It was so fucking wearing. Then came the gradual erosion of energy and an initial disbelief that developed into full-blown cynicism. When they asked with that bright, fresh tone: ‘What am I to do?’ Falls longed to scream: ‘QUIT!’