Inspector Mallefant is not a happy man.
After the events at the service station he has been dressed down by every officer with a rank equal to or above his own. The junior officers and patrolmen are clearly sniggering behind his back and even the cleaning woman had a go. He has been told that he will be made to take responsibility for everything that has happened. It will be him, not the constabulary, who will be vilified in the press. There is a shit-storm brewing, and Mallefant will be at the centre of it.
He has been removed from the case and instructed that, as from tomorrow, he will be back on the beat. He has been given a quota of dealers, curb-crawlers and prostitutes to arrest before the end of the week. He has been told he will be working as crowd control at music festivals and football matches for the rest of his career. Dirty work.
The Rant case has now been assigned to the anti-terrorist squad and they have spent most of the night debriefing him. An apt description, since he feels as though he has had his briefs removed and been given a full cavity search.
His career is over. He knows that all of these measures are designed to force him out before his pension is due in five years’ time. And he knows that it will work.
As he enters his office, he notices that a package has arrived for him – the footage he has requested from the various stages of Rant’s progress around the country.
He knows he should hand it over, that it is no longer any of his concern. Not his job. But, partly out of spite against those who are replacing him and partly from a morbid fascination to learn more about this man who has destroyed his life, he opens the package and begins to watch the videos it contains. Nothing jumps out on the first run through, but he immediately begins to watch again.
Something is not right. It’s tugging at his unconscious, like a pervert in the undergrowth tugging at his trousers.
Look everyone! Here is Rant at the bank. See him frown at his gun. See him try to leave the money on the counter. See him get confused. See him try to argue. See him run away.
Here is Rant at the hospital. See him shout and wave his arms about, arguing with the fat man. See his disgust as he carries the corpse. See the funny faces he pulls. Here is Rant crashing his car into a lamppost. Oh, do be careful, silly Rant!
Here is Rant arguing with the young Special Police Constable, trying to persuade him to leave. Look, he is talking to the boot of his car, silly Rant. Here is Rant ushering the Special Constable into the back of his car at gunpoint. See how defeated and despondent he looks.
Here is Rant dragging a corpse into his friend’s house, on his own. What hard work he is making of it. The pathologist will insist on showing poor Inspector Mallefant its autopsy Y-incision as evidence that this was not a recent killing. How green Inspector Mallefant went.
Here is Rant dancing in the street with his shoes on fire. Dance, Rant, dance! Groovy Rant. See how unprofessional he looks. See him argue with himself, and with the boot of his car again!
Look, here is a blurry film of Rant at a service station, bewildered and bemused whilst the world falls down around his ears. He argues with the nasty gangster types. He argues with the large muscled man. He argues with the senior citizens. He argues with the fat man. He is just one big argument.
Where is Rant?
Here is Rant.
No, thinks Inspector Mallefant. This is not Rant. This is not a man acting of his own volition. This is a man who is following orders. Following them badly, and becoming more and more deeply mired in a shit-pot not of his making. The fat man is somehow involved, if not directly in charge. The strange group at the service station is also involved, somehow. And the people in the other car, who were they? Whose side were they on? What has he missed?
Someone was merrily leading them up the wrong path.
Inspector Mallefant wonders if he should pass this information on. To the anti-terrorism unit. He knows what they are like, their reputation. They are an equal opportunity unit – they will happily shoot anyone who gets in their way, regardless of race, sex, religion or rank.
These were men whom Mallefant is happy to see heading off in the wrong direction. He would like to see them with egg on their faces (not literally, you understand). He has to figure out who the other players in this drama are (ho, ho, Rant would appreciate that). The gangster types, the fat man, the muscle-bound hero and the beautiful woman (if you like that kind of thing). But where to start?
Then he pauses. Something is afoot. He rewinds the tape and watches the events at the service station again, more slowly, concentrating on fuzzy video of the beautiful woman. He rubs his eyes. Watches again. It can’t be. But…
Inspector Mallefant glares at his telephone, which has begun to ring. More reprimands, or more sneering from his colleagues? He sighs and picks up the receiver.
Into his ear comes a familiar voice. The last person Inspector Mallefant would have expected to call. As the voice explains, things become clear. He stares again at the frozen screen in front of him.
And Inspector Mallefant’s day begins to look decidedly better.
Then the caller gives him the details of what is about to take place.
And Inspector Mallefant’s day begins to look decidedly worse.