Her Last Call To Louis MacNeice Read Online Free PDF

bacon butty.’
    She’d had a husband, Patrick, from County Kerry who’d gone MIA . The worst criminal ever to come outa Camberwell. Not dangerous, just useless. He’d attempted to rob a Pakistani shopkeeper, using a replica. The man near split his skull in two with a brick … a real one. Patrick got ten years. Prior to that, he’d been in a pub one night. A fella named Mick had given him a ferocious hiding. All Patrick remembered was the name. So, he packed a meat cleaver in an Adidas holdall and returned to the pub.
    No sooner had he ordered, when the barman roared to a customer heading for the loo, ‘How’s about ye Mick.’
    Patrick followed, missed with the cleaver, it was embedded in the wall. Mick and five of his mates then attempted to fit the cleaver to Patrick’s arse-hole. After she’d told me this, she added drily, ‘I said to ’im, you pathetic wanker, you like sex and travel so fuck off outa here.’
    What Arnold also provided was information. Of the banking variety. Doc had a chat with him, suggested it would be mutual if the skinny on obscure banks were available. Their days for ‘holding’.
    Arnold was yer classic accountant. He asked no questions but one, a highly indignant tone, ‘You think I can be bought?’
    Doc named a figure.
    He was bought.
    Networking. Wot a lovely word:
    Hip
    Contemporary
    Sassy.
    Arnold networked a series of clerks in the major banks. Not too many, but sufficient to provide the dates without arousing suspicion.
    It had risk … sure. The old fall-out factor, but it worked. Plus too, a clerk blew the whistle he was on the bank ‘suss list’. Banks don’t rate loyalty, only profit.
    I’d put a portion of map on the wall, let the Doc have a look.

    Asked, ‘See anything you like?’
    ‘Never heard of that Bicester, means we’d pass thru Morse country.’
    ‘Put the wind up Sergeant Lewis, eh.’
    Thursdays were best as the payrolls would be in but we didn’t want to establish a pattern. Sooner or later though, you had to figure on getting a tug. I’d only recently moved to Meadow Road, was burning money with the decorators. Jeez, what is it with those fucks, all that shouting. I’d said, ‘Hey … this isn’t the Grand Canyon, you don’t have to check for echo. Let’s keep the damn shouting to a minimum. How would this be … if a roar has to be made, and I don’t dispute the necessity, I’ll do it … OK I’m paying, so I’ll be roaring.’
    Which I think put it across rather well. An informed and civilised outlay of the rules. They listened almost attentively and then continued roaring.
    ‘Hey Joe, where’s my hammer? … Cyril, wot’s gonna win the 3.30?… That Dettori ain’t worth shit … Three sugars and a sausage sarnie …’
    Yeah, like that. I was contemplating a short stay in a hotel but I liked to keep an eye on the fucks. The doorbell rang. Would one of the decorators answer? Course not …
    ‘Not in my portfolio mate.’
    I flung the door open, the hammerin’ behind me a decibel louder. Two men in raincoats, the hard-eyed look. You knew when they weren’t flogging double glazing or Mormons. Coats were too cheap.
    ‘Mr Cooper.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Mr David Cooper.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Sorry to trouble you Sir, I’m Chief Inspector Noble and this is Detective Sergeant Quinn, might we have a word?’
    ‘Not a quiet one I’m afraid.’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    I gestured behind me. Noble gave a tight smile, humour not even distantly touching it. In his fifties, he’d the recent health of an ex-drinker and the tension it bestowed. I looked at my watch, said, ‘Down the road, there’s The Roebuck … very quiet at this hour, would that do … are ye allowed … fraternise in … public houses.’
    A look passed between them said … ‘got a friggin’ live one.’
    Quinn was thin, in his thirties. He’d the face of a grey-hound gone rogue, a rabid light in his eyes. This guy liked to sink his teeth and never let up. The worst kind