Maxwell's Mask by M.J. Trow Page B

the tough little girl from the banks of the Thames who had crossed the tracks; crossed them because that was the only place to be.
    â€˜Fag?’ She passed a ciggie to the scrawny, snub-nosed lad in front of her.
    â€˜Nah, I don’t,’ he said.
    â€˜Liar,’ she laughed. ‘Your fingers are browner than Hitler’s jacket. You just don’t want to takeanything that might resemble a freebie from a copper. Am I right or am I right?’
    â€˜You’re not from round here, are you?’ he asked her.
    â€˜The East.’ She lit up and blew smoke skywards. ‘Deptford. Know it?’
    â€˜Nah,’ he shook his head. ‘I don’t know south of the river.’
    â€˜You?’
    â€˜Paddington.’
    â€˜Thought I recognised it,’ she smiled. ‘The lilt. Bed, they call you, don’t they?’
    â€˜Some do,’ he shrugged. ‘Friends.’
    â€˜Well, then.’ The WPC leaned back, cradling her knee with both hands, the ciggie curling smoke on the lip of the ashtray alongside her. ‘I’d better make it Anthony, hadn’t I? I’m not going to bullshit you with all that think-of-me-as-your-big-sister crap. We’re coming at life from different sides, you and me. Fair enough?’
    â€˜Fair enough,’ Anthony agreed.
    â€˜Tell me about the Winchcombe house.’
    â€˜Where?’
    She looked at him. His look said it all. The cherub nose and brown thatch, the bright, dark eyes darting everywhere. Jane had seen dozens of Anthony Wettas, perhaps hundreds of them. Contempt for authority was written all over them, they had a natural aptitude for it. And no amount of family rehab was going to change them. All thatwas different was the playground – the game was the same.
    He looked at her. She was pretty enough – for a copper, of course. Most of the filth he’d come across – and that was quite a long list by now – had been big blokes, with shoulders like high-rise buildings. The women had been dogs. This one was a bit different. A bit street-wise, offering him a fag an’ all.
    â€˜Don’t waste my time, Anthony. An old lady is dead.’
    â€˜It wasn’t me,’ the lad assured her quickly.
    â€˜Yeah,’ she nodded, leaning forward and folding her arms. ‘And that’s not a very convincing Bart Simpson, is it?’
    His eyes flickered as his surroundings hit and a thought occurred to him. ‘Ain’t you supposed to have a tape running? And where’s my brief? My social worker?’ Anthony Wetta knew the score; he’d been around.
    â€˜Same place your hope is, Anthony,’ she told him. ‘Gone. Tell me about the old lady.’
    They were sitting together in a part of Leighford nick that was due for demolition and it was raining. The giant drops bounced off the leaking skylights and dripped into a plastic bowl crookedly placed in the corner. A brighter boy than Anthony would have realised there was something odd about this – no second copper, no support. There again, no rubber hoses, either. His dad had told him, on thefew occasions he’d seen his dad, that all coppers used these. They worked on yer feet first, where it didn’t show. That was why, when he was arrested and brought to the nick, he’d carefully chosen a pair of socks that said it all. On the sole of one was “Fuck” and on the other was “Off”. He hoped he’d put them on the right feet – a spoonerism wouldn’t have been half so effective.
    â€˜What old lady?’
    Jane picked up her cigarette, fighting the urge to stick it up the little shit’s angelic nose. ‘Look, Anthony, George has talked, OK? We know it all anyway.’
    â€˜You don’t know squit,’ the boy assured her.
    â€˜Sure we do. It was all your idea. George is as green as goose-shit. He wouldn’t have had the bottle to break into the house without you. He says you