Good Bait

‘Better than that, darling.’

‘What’s better?’

Carla was laughing. ‘Me in uniform.’

‘What?’

‘Uniform. Like the one you used to wear. Till, like, I get promoted.’

Karen was looking at her gone out. ‘Just let me get this straight. You’re going to be …’

‘Playing you. Yes, that’s right. I mean, not really you. But someone like you. This black policewoman who starts out walking the beat, but then after she helps solve this specially grisly murder she gets made up to detective. Oh, and I get to sing. Just karaoke, but, you know, real songs.’

Karen accepted her cocktail from the waiter, drank most of it down in a single swallow and ordered two more.

‘It’s ITV, their new series. Black and White. At least, that’s what it’s called for now. Might change. Something a bit more sexy.’

‘And this is all — what? — definite? Definitely happening or …’

‘No, it’s definite. This company making it, the real deal, yeah? Shameless, you know? Skins. That’s them. Tons of stuff. BAFTAs and Lord knows what all over the walls.’

‘And how did you …?’

‘Why me, you mean?’

‘Yeah, I suppose so.’

‘This guy, one of the producers, saw me at the National, didn’t he? That Jacobean thing I’ve been touring. Got in touch with my agent. Would I be interested in coming along for a chat sometime. Chat, my black arse! Lunch at the Groucho, thank you very much. Ended up more or less offering me the part before he’d signed for the bill.’

‘More or less.’

‘That was then. Now it’s a done deal. Well …’ She laughed. ‘More or less.’

‘And this part, this role. This black policewoman. How big is it?’

Carla chuckled. ‘Girlfriend, it’s the lead!’

‘Say again? A police series with a black woman in the lead?’

‘Why not?’

‘Come on, Carla, in the States, maybe. What is it? HBO? But here. ITV?’

‘Well, there is this other guy. The whatever, Detective Chief Inspector. He’s white.’

‘And he’s in charge.’

‘Yes. But only in name. And I mean, not really. What they’re going for, you see, is something like the couple in that show that was on the Beeb. Ashes to Ashes?That what it was called?’

‘Ashes to Ashes, great. And you’re what? Keeley Hawes?’

‘I suppose.’

‘But in black face.’

‘Hey! Hey!’

‘Hey what?’

‘Why are you giving me such a hard time?’

Karen shook her head and sighed. ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry, I-’

‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘Well, I am …’

‘Pleased for me and well, I guess, pleased ‘cause of what it is. You know, someone — well, someone like you … Oh, you know what I mean.’

‘A positive role model?’

‘Yes.’

‘If that’s what it turns out to be.’

‘At least, give it a chance.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s just …’

‘Just what?’

Karen shrugged.

‘Not a great time, you think, for being a role model for women of colour. Out in the real world, that is.’

‘Something like that, yes.’

The operation to arrest the suspects identified in the killing of Hector Prince had been carried out that morning. Five addresses in the Wood Green area raided, one hundred and fifty front-line officers involved, thirty of them armed, with three teams of firearms officers in reserve. As things had played out, there was considerable local resistance, in the course of which seven officers were injured, one seriously, when a length of stone coping was thrown from the ninth-floor balcony of a block of flats. When the ambulance arrived to provide assistance, it was attacked with bricks and bottles and, in one instance, a home-made firebomb.

Media comparisons were made to the killing of PC Keith Blacklock on the Broadwater Farm Estate back in ’85. The Sun, Mirror, Sky News, all had a field day.

In a different situation, the spectacle of Mike Ramsden, blood ru

And what proliferated were accusations of black mob rule.

No, not a great time.

‘I’m sorry,’ Karen said, ‘and it’s great, you’re right.’ Leaning across, she gave Carla a hug. ‘And I am really pleased for you, okay?’

‘You better be. ’Cause once this show gets rolling, it’s you I’ll be relying on for on-the-spot research. You realise that? In fact, why don’t I see about getting you taken on as some kind of special adviser? You’d be perfect.’

‘Thanks, Carla.’ Karen held up both hands. ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’

‘We’ll see.’

Leaning back, Carla sampled one from a nicely overpriced dish of salted anchovies. Karen looked around for the waiter, refills needed.

‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘if you’re the black in this, who’s the white?’

‘The guy?’

‘Yeah, the guy.’

‘They’re not sure. A lot of names, but nothing yet nailed down.’

‘Names, like who?’

‘Oh, Damian Lewis, that was one. And that guy from The Wire, the cop, you know?’

‘McNulty?’

‘Yeah, him.’

‘The Irish one?’

‘Yes, but he’s not Irish. Well, his mother was, I think. But he’s English. Went to Eton. How much more English can you get?’

‘You’d never know it.’

Carla smiled. ‘Nothing’s what it seems, girlfriend. You should know that by now.’

Karen thought she was probably right. After one more round, the sound around them rising up to the high ceilings and reverberating back down, they decided to call it a night. Go their separate ways.

Her head less than clear and nursing the begi

Karen hesitated, thought for a moment about going over, banging on the car window, showing her warrant card, but why bother? Just someone sleeping it off.

Fishing her keys from her bag, she went, without hurrying, up the steps towards the front door. As the key turned in the lock she heard the sound of a car door closing, steps approaching.

‘Thought you were never coming home. Thought I’d be stuck there all night.’

Alex. Alex Williams. Holding what looked suspiciously like a bottle of single malt.

53

‘Auchentoshan.’

‘What?’

‘How you say it, apparently. Aw-ken-tosh-an. At least, that’s what the guy in Oddbins told me.’

‘And he’d know.’

‘Doubt if he’s been north of Luton in his life.’

Karen had fetched two glasses; tumblers, but heavy bottomed enough to be close to the real thing.

There was a standard lamp with a shade in an odd colour of lime green in one corner; a small anglepoise on one of the shelves near the stereo. The curtains were drawn across, shutting out the London night.

With a choice of the one easy chair or a two-seater settee which abutted it at right angles, Alex had taken the chair. A low table sat between, cluttered with several unopened brown envelopes, the previous week’s Highbury and Islington Gazette, a book of short stories by someone with the unlikely name of Maile Meloy, and a letter from Karen’s mother in Jamaica. Karen dumped them all on the floor and set the glasses down in their place.

Alex swivelled the stopper from the bottle, leaned forward and began to pour.

‘I shouldn’t, you know,’ Karen said.

‘On the wagon?’

‘Just the opposite.’

‘Heavy night?’

‘Champagne cocktails at One Aldwych, if you please.’

‘Date? Celebration?’

‘Not a date. My friend, Carla.’