‘Money in crime…’

Pause.

Big delivery:

‘Writing.’

Then the previous McBain, Fat Ollie’s Book, had accelerated Brant’s vision of the cop/author. He’d even bought The Writers’ and Artists’ Year Book, was trawling through agents and likely publishers.

Roberts asked:

‘Falls back yet?’

A black WPC. The wet dream of the nick, her star had spectacularly dipped. Suspected of offing a cop killer, a spell in rehab, a near lethal coke habit, and a lesbian fling with a bomber. She was barely clinging to her job. If she’d been white, she’d been gone. Brant dropped his cig in the cup, heard the sizzle, said:

‘They got her on that schools gig.’

The very bottom of the Met barrel. No, worse, out-side the barrel, trying to reach the bottom. Certain assignments:

Traffic

Railton Road nights

Press liason

Were regarded as shite, but going into classrooms, telling apprentice muggers about the role of the police (as if they didn’t know the deal… cops beat on you, run your ass ragged). This gig was regarded as the last stop before dismissal. In fact it was dismissal, bar the shouting. Consigned to that dark side of the moon too was PC McDonald, once the Super’s golden boy and potential hatchet-man. He’d seriously fucked up and got shot into the bargain.

McDonald and Falls had a history, none of it good. They didn’t totally hate each other, but it was in the zone. Falls had hit on a shit pile of money and sent some of it to McDonald, anonymously, but he didn’t seem to have improved in any noticeable fashion. The other cops had a lottery going as to which would crack first. The pool was a healthy?500 and growing. If they both jacked, there was a double-indemnity clause.