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    The McDead
    The McDead
    The McDead
    Ebook151 pages1 hour

    The McDead

    By Ken Bruen

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    Chief Inspector Roberts combs London for the Irish gangster who killed his brother in “the most striking and original crime [series] of the decade” (British GQ).

    With his personal life all but flushed down some deep dark hole, Chief Inspector Roberts is waiting for the next punch to the heart. Working with his Irish partner, Detective Sergeant Brant, in a London precinct so dangerous even the pit bulls travel in pairs, Roberts is prepared for almost anything—just not the murder of his sad and wasted transient brother, Tony.
     
    The thug responsible for it is an ex-con named Logan who’s established himself as the south side’s smartest: a master of money laundering, quick hits, and outrunning the cops. His only weakness is his temper—and it’s about to bring his sordid empire tumbling down. Roberts is going to see to that . . .
     
    “Fans of British procedurals and noir novels will savor every speck of grit in this unrelenting crime novel.” —Booklist
     
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMysteriousPress.com Open Road
    Release dateDec 18, 2012
    ISBN9781453288993
    The McDead
    Author

    Ken Bruen

    Ken Bruen has been a finalist for the Edgar and Anthony Awards, and has won a Macavity Award, a Barry Award, and two Shamus Awards for the Jack Taylor series. He is also the author of the Inspector Brant series. Several of Bruen's novels have been adapted for the screen: The first six Jack Taylor novels were adapted into a television series starring Iain Glen; Blitz was adapted into a movie starring Jason Statham; and London Boulevard was adapted into a film starring Colin Farrell and Keira Knightley. Bruen lives in Galway, Ireland.

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    • 3/5
      In this one, Chief Inspector Roberts's brother has been murdered, and he knows who did it. However, he doesn't want to go through regular police channels to catch the culprit. In addition, there is a new female constable who has reason to seek revenge on constable MacDonald.3 stars

    Book preview

    The McDead - Ken Bruen

    The McDead

    Ken Bruen

    mp

    For Jess

    Contents

    Kick off

    Living next door to Alice (Smokie)

    The Greeks have a word for it

    Song for Guy

    Top dog

    Wake up

    Private investigation

    Lodged

    Check up

    Profile

    Fear to fear itself unfolding

    Evening song

    Fall out

    Powerful

    Moving on

    Coup

    The past

    Kebabed

    Shopping

    In the modern world

    Lesson

    Things are entirely what they appear to be and behind them there is nothing. (Sartre)

    Drinking lights out

    Band

    There’s no such thing as unconditional love. You just find a person with the same set of conditions as yourself. (Mark Kennedy)

    Crying time

    Once we were worriers

    English graffiti

    Making amends

    What about the hotel where I was asked, do I want the double bed or the comfortable bed? I thought, ‘This is a quiz I am not up to.’ (Janet Street-Porter)

    Ice cream

    The only actress on the planet who can play a woman whose child has been killed by wild Australian dogs and can actually have you rooting for the dingoes. (Joe Queenan on Meryl Streep)

    Fright night

    Say cheese

    Benediction moon

    Let’s party

    Who shot TL?

    Smoking

    About the Author

    Kick off

    ‘AM I DYING?’

    Answer that. Do you lie big and say, like in the movies, ‘Naw, it’s just a scratch,’? Or, clutch his hand real tight and say, ‘I ain’t letting you go, bro’?

    Chief Inspector Roberts was a professional; a professional liar, among other things. It didn’t teach you that in the police manual. No, that came with promotion. He considered all the lines he could use. What he said was, ‘You’re dying.’

    Roberts had got the call at three in the morning. The hour of death. Coming reluctantly out of sleep, he muttered, ‘This better be bloody good.’ And heard, ‘James!’

    No one used his Christian name, not even his wife. He said, ‘Tony … Good Lord … where are you? D’ya know what time it is?’ And heard a sad laugh.

    Then: ‘I didn’t ring to ask the time. I’m hurt … I’m hurt pretty bad.’

    He sounded hurt, his speech was coming through slow and laboured. Eventually, Roberts pinned down an address, said, ‘Don’t move, I’m on me way.’

    Again, the sad laugh, ‘I won’t move, I can guarantee it.’ Roberts dressed quickly. His wife was asleep in another room. Yeah, like that.

    ‘Would it fuck.’ Roberts said aloud, ‘God, I haven’t much called on you … I know … but maybe this would be a good place to start.’

    He’d learned from his sergeant, a dubious example of Catholicism, that it was a bartering thing. You did something for God, He did something for you. Like the Masons really.

    He wasn’t sure what he had to trade and said, ‘I’ll … ah … do good works.’ What that entailed he’d no idea. Perhaps buy The Big Issue more regularly and not wait for change.

    Yeah, it was a place to start. He waited, then tried the ignition again.

    Nope

    Nada

    Zilch

    He glanced briefly upwards, said:

    ‘It’s about what I figured.’

    A mini-cab later and he arrived in Stockwell, where the pitbulls travelled in twos. Ludlow Road is near the tube station, a short mugging away. At that hour the streets were littered with

    the undead,

    the lost, and

    the frozen.

    The building was a warren of bedsits. No lock on the front door. A wino was spread in the hall, his head came up wheezed: ‘Is it Tuesday?’

    ‘No.’

    ‘Are you sure?’

    Roberts wondered if the guy even knew the year but hey … he was going to argue? He said, ‘It’s Thursday … OK?’

    ‘Ah, good. I play golf on Tuesdays.’

    Of course.

    Flat six had a cleaner door than most. It was ajar. Roberts entered slowly. Entered devastation-ville. The place had been thrashed, cushions slit open, TV smashed, broken chairs and crockery, and his broken brother lying in the bathroom. He was a mess of blood and bruising. From the angle of his legs, Roberts knew they were gone. He opened his eyes, well, half opened one. The other was shut down. By a hammer it seemed.

    He said, ‘James, can I get you something?’

    And Roberts tried not to smile, bent down said:

    ‘I called an ambulance.’

    His brother seemed to have lost consciousness, then said: ‘Oh good, is it a weekender?’

    A south-east London maxim. You called one on a weekday, could expect it on Saturday. Roberts didn’t know what to do, said: ‘I dunno what to do.’

    That’s when Tony asked if he was dying. He tried to cradle his brother’s head, there was blood everywhere, asked, ‘Who did this, Tone?’

    ‘Tommy Logan.’

    Before he could ask more, his brother convulsed, then let his head back, and died. When the medics arrived and scene of crime boyos, Roberts was led outside to the ruined sitting room. As they moved the body, a mobile fell to the floor. The officer in charge said, ‘I’m sorry, guv, but I have to ask some questions, you understand.’

    ‘Yeah.’

    ‘Did he say anything?’

    ‘No.’

    The officer tried to proceed delicately, asked, ‘He called you?’

    ‘Yeah.’

    ‘And he didn’t give any indication of what had happened?’

    ‘He said he was hurt and could I come.’

    ‘Yes?’

    ‘I came.’

    ‘Right … was he … ah … conscious … when you got here?’

    ‘No.’

    The officer looked round, said, ‘I see.’ But he didn’t. Went another direction, asked, ‘Were you close, guv?’

    ‘Close?’

    ‘You know, like regular contact?’

    Roberts focused, then said, ‘I spoke to him ten years ago … maybe eleven.’

    ‘Ah, so you weren’t, then?’

    Roberts turned his full look on the officer, said, ‘No wonder you’re a detective.’

    Living next door to Alice

    (Smokie)

    WPC FALLS WAS STANDING in front of the Superintendent. He was drinking tea and drinking it noisily. It’s a very difficult task to chew tea but he appeared to have mastered it.

    Gnaw

    gnaw

    gnaw

    Like an anorexic rodent. He’d get it down but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Worse. A biscuit, a club milk. He slid open the wrapper, then carefully peeled back the silver paper, said, ‘They’re well protected.’

    Did he mean the public, criminals, tax dodgers? So, she just said, ‘Yes, sir.’ Which is about as unthreatening an answer as you can get.

    WPC Falls was black and pretty or, as they said in the canteen, ‘She’s pretty black’. Argue the toss. Recently, she’d fucked up spectacularly in both her personal and professional life. She’d been pregnant and had gone after an arsonist alone. Nearly killed, she’d lost the baby and almost her job.

    DS Brant had forced her along to arrest a hit man. It had saved her job and restored some of her confidence. Not all, but definitely in the neighbourhood. After, he’d said, ‘You know Falls, you’re getting a mean look.’

    ‘What?’

    ‘Yeah, a nastiness around the eyes.’

    She couldn’t resist, said, ‘Like you, sergeant?’

    He laughed, answered, ‘See what I mean? Yeah …

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