‘ ’Cos it’s fucking Brant, why’d you think?’
Roberts asked if Brant had any family, and Porter said:
‘We thought you’d be the most likely to know, you being his mate and all.’
Roberts blew that off, said:
‘Nobody is Brant’s mate. Haven’t you learnt anything?’
Roberts did know there’d been a wife and eventually got one of the officers to track her down, got the phone number, and Porter volunteered:
‘If you wish, sir, I can make the call.’
Trying to regain some ground, he felt Roberts had never liked him.
He was right.
Roberts, the mobile in his hand, stopped, asked:
‘Do you know her?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then why the fuck would you call her?’
And turned away. He dialled the number and a woman answered. He explained who he was and in what he hoped was a sympathetic tone, explained what had happened, she cut him off with:
‘Is he dead?’
‘No, thank god…’
‘Call me when he is.’
Click.
Stunned, Roberts stared at the phone. Porter was hovering, asked:
‘How did she take it?’
‘Real well. She sounded like she won the lottery.’
They say all coppers are bastards. They’re not-but those that are make a very good job of it.
5
Terry Dunne was nervous. Not a good feeling for a hit man to have. He’d been in the business for over two years, making a nice rep, building it slow and steady. He’d done a few criminals, guys who’d crossed the wrong people, got greedy, and got whacked. No civilians and, so far, no heat. The cops treated it as almost a service when someone took the wrong uns off the board. So he’d stayed under the radar, his name known to the men who mattered.