by Mark Timlin
I asked for a bottle of Tiger beer, and had a quick squint at the menu.
We settled for prawn and crab meat soup for three, half a crispy duck with all the trimmings, sweet and sour prawns, noodles with three kinds of meat, bang bang chicken, deep-fried beef in chilli and green peppers, and double egg-fried rice.
The food was good, the service quick, without the waiters actually snatching the chopsticks out of your mouth, and the toffee apples for dessert were extremely sweet and sticky. We all finished with Irish coffees and as the town hall clock struck ten we were back on the street and heading home.
When we got back to the flat, Dawn broke out the Southern Comfort and lemonade, rolled another giant spliff, and we settled down on the sofa in front of the late film on BBC2. I had Tracey on one side of me and Dawn on the other like a pair of book-ends, and I was certainly feeling very little pain by the time the movie ended.
Tracey was fast asleep by then, and Dawn and I were getting pretty sweet and sticky ourselves, so we left her and moved into the bedroom.
And that was more or less that for the rest of the night.
3
So that’s the way it was that morning. Just another morning as far as I was concerned. Until the telephone rang and everything changed, just like it always seems to.
I leant over and picked up the receiver. ‘Yeah?’ I said.
‘Mr Sharman?’ I didn’t recognise the voice.
‘Yeah,’ I said again.
‘It’s Frank Grant here.’
I didn’t recognise the name either. ‘Yeah,’ I said for the third time.
There was a long pause as if the name alone should have meant something to me. ‘Frank Grant. You remember.’
‘No.’ I didn’t even bother to think about it.
‘Frank Grant,’ he repeated, almost like a mantra. Or as if maybe it was the last thing in the world that he was sure of.
I was getting tired of guessing games. ‘Listen, Frank Grant,’ I said, ‘I’ve got a lousy hangover and I’m tired. I’m sure I should know you, but I don’t. So give me a clue, or get lost.’
‘You used to call me “Sailor” Grant.’
And that’s when I dropped the phone. It bounced off my chest, and I grabbed for it, catching it before it hit the carpet.
‘Sailor Grant,’ I said.
‘That’s right. Do you remember now?’
I would have thought it was bloody obvious that I did.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘How did you get this number?’
‘I asked around. You haven’t moved far.’
I had, but I came back.
‘Where are you?’ I asked.
‘Close.’
That was what I was afraid of.
‘It’s been a long time,’ I said.
‘Twelve years I’ve been inside. I’m out now on licence.’
Twelve years, I thought. Could it really be that long? Longer really, what with the trial and all. But of course it could. Where did it all go?
‘What do you want?’ I asked.
‘I want to see you.’
Dream on, I thought.
‘I don’t think so,’ I said.
‘You know I didn’t do it, Mr Sharman. You were the only one who believed me.’
I didn’t want to remember.
Another pause lengthened down the telephone line as he waited for a reply.
When I didn’t make one, he spoke again. Pleading this time.
‘Please, Mr Sharman. It isn’t too late to put it right. I need to see you.’
‘No, Sailor,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you do, but I really don’t want to see you. It was all too long ago.’
‘Please, Mr Sharman.’ He was sounding desperate by then.
‘Not in this life, son,’ I said, put down the phone, and reached over and pulled the plug out of the wall. I took another mouthful of beer, laid my head back on a cushion, and let my mind float back twelve years.
4
Detective Constable Sharman. First day attached to CID at Brixton nick with the new rank, on transfer from Kennington. Mid-twenties with his whole life in front of him. The sky was the limit. Who knew where he might end up? Commissioner maybe.
It was not to be, of course. DC was the highest rank I ever attained.
But then. Oh, then.
Young. Fit. Newly married. First mortgage on a flat in Streatham, and a baby soon. My wife just had that feeling. In love forever, with no one else but her. But forever is a very long time.
I was driving a second-hand Cortina then. One careful lady owner who only used it on Sunday to drive to church. You know the deal. ‘You’re a police officer, sir?’ said the salesman. ‘Our favourite kind of customer. Of course we’ll come down a couple of hundred quid on the asking price. A free service and a tankful of petrol? No problem. And listen. If you hear of any nice motors coming up for auction through the Met, let us know. We’ll make sure you don’t lose by it.’
That’s how it starts. And you end up taking backhanders for looking the other way, and eventually commit grand larceny.
But that morning, all of that was yet to come.
I arrived at eight-thirty sharp. New suit. Clean white shirt neatly ironed by the loving wife. Tie done up tight, and black lace-up shoes polished brightly.
I reported to the detective inspector. He seemed about as interested in me as I was in nuclear physics, and sent me to introduce myself to the detective sergeant. If anything he was even less interested, and told me to go to the canteen to find another DC to talk to. He was eating double egg, sausage, beans, tinned tomatoes, chips and a fried slice. If anything he was the least interested of the lot. He sneered at my suit and made me buy him a cup of tea.
When he’d finished his breakfast, he looked at his watch. ‘I’ll show you round the manor when I’ve had my tea,’ he said. ‘I know a boozer that needs checking out. Guv’nor should be bottling up in a few minutes. He’ll be glad to buy us a pint or two.’
The DC took out an unmarked car that stank of last night’s Chinese takeout, and we drove through the back streets of Brixton to a little pub close to a council estate. The draymen were delivering, and we walked round the back, through a door and into the saloon bar. There was a dour-looking geezer behind the bar, leaning on the counter drinking a cup of coffee. As soon as he saw us he took down two pint glasses. ‘Lenny,’ he said, by way of greeting.
The DC’s name was Leonard Millar, with an ‘a’.
‘Tom,’ said Lenny. ‘This fashion plate is Nick Sharman. Detective constable of this parish. He’s the replacement for Sammy Plant. You’ll be seeing something of him over the foreseeable future, I have no doubt.’
‘A pleasure,’ said Tom, and stuck out his mitten.
I took it and shook it, and agreed that indeed it was a pleasure.
‘What’s your poison, Nick? Don’t mind if I call you that?’ said Tom.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘A pint of lager would be good.’
I wasn’t that used to drinking so early, but I’d soon learn.
Tom pulled two pints, and Lenny and I dragged a pair of stools up to the bar. Lenny said, ‘What kind of weekend did you have, Tom?’
‘Quiet,’ replied Tom.
‘Anything known about that blag at Safeways last week?’
‘Not a word, Lenny.’
‘If you hear anything – no matter what.’
‘You’ll be the first to know.’
‘Good,’ said Lenny, and turned to me. He was about thirty-five. Going to seed fast. Too many early-morning fry-ups, followed by a few pints probably. He was shorter than me, and fat, with a chin that almost hid the knot of his greasy tie. ‘Got any fags, Nick?’ he asked.
I took out a packet of Silk Cut and put them on the bar. They helped themselves. I took one myself, and Tom
lit all three with an ancient Ronson petrol lighter.
Just then the draymen came in, and Tom busied himself pulling them a pint of best bitter each. Lenny sank half his lager with one swallow and said, ‘Good bloke, Tom. Well worth cultivating. Knows a lot of what goes on round here. Treat him right and he’ll do the same to you. This place never closes.’
‘Don’t the punters know he’s on our side?’
‘They know we come in here. But if the punters stayed out of every pub in Brixton that makes us welcome, most would have been out of business years ago. No. It’s a game, Nick. You must know that. You’ve been in the job long enough. We protect our sources, and they protect us. We don’t take liberties. Nothing’s ever said. If the info doesn’t pan out, we don’t come back with baseball bats. That’s not the way it works. Learn that, and you’ll not go far wrong.’
The pair of us sat in the bar until opening time, and through till the three o’clock bell went, and Lenny told me something about the DS and the DI I’d be working with. I was getting well pissed by then, and hadn’t had to put my hand in my pocket once. I was beginning to wonder when we’d do some real work, when Lenny said, ‘Time-to-go time, son. Don’t think it’s going to be like this every day. The DS told me to break you in gentle. I think we’ll get back to the factory and see what’s occurred whilst we’ve been enjoying a nice drink in here.’
‘Suits me,’ I said.
‘You drive,’ said Lenny. ‘You’re more pissed than me.’
So I did.
5
When we got back to the station, the balloon had gone up. A balloon that wouldn’t land again for another twelve years or more.
The DI was standing in the CID office, with the DS who’d sent me to see Lenny Millar. The inspector’s name was Paul Grisham. The sergeant’s, Collier. Terry Collier.
‘Where have you two been?’ demanded Grisham.
‘I’ve been showing Sharman round the plot,’ said Lenny.
‘Round the pubs more like,’ replied Grisham. ‘Sharman, you look pissed.’ He wasn’t a detective inspector for nothing.
‘A girl’s been raped,’ Grisham went on. ‘Behind some lockup garages at the back of the town hall. It’s a bad one. She’s been pretty badly knocked about.’
‘How badly?’ asked Lenny.
‘Badly enough. She’s still unconscious. They don’t know if she’ll live.’
‘When?’ asked Lenny.
‘An hour or so ago. When you were on your fifth pint.’
I was beginning to wonder if the man had us bugged.
‘Do we know who she was?’ Lenny again.
‘No. Not yet. I’ve got two DCs and the uniforms out searching the area to see what they can find. She had no ID on her.’
‘No bag?’ I asked.
Grisham’s eyes moved to me. ‘Oh, it speaks,’ he said. ‘No. No bag.’
‘Anyone in the frame?’ asked Lenny.
‘No,’ Grisham said. ‘Not yet.’
Collier got into the act. ‘You two,’ he said to Lenny and me, ‘get out and have a drive round. See if you can find anyone who fits the bill. And stay out of the pubs.’
‘Yes, skip,’ said Lenny, and the phone rang.
Grisham picked it up, barked his name into the receiver and listened. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Are you sure?’
He listened again.
‘Has anybody told him?’
He was silent for another moment.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Why on our ground? OK. I’ll make sure he’s informed.’
He put down the phone, and stood for a moment, before turning to face the three of us again.
‘The girl who was raped. She’s been identified. Her name’s Carol Harvey.’
No one said a word.
‘She’s the daughter of a certain DI Harvey who’s stationed down in Purley. And if that’s not bad enough, she’s also the niece of our own dear detective superintendent, Alan Byrne. And she’s only fourteen, poor cow.’
‘Christ!’ said Collier. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes I am,’ replied Grisham. ‘Her face is pretty well knocked about, but one of the WPCs down at the hospital recognised her. She’s been here to see her uncle a few times.’
‘And Mr Byrne doesn’t know?’ asked Collier.
‘It’s my pleasant duty to inform him,’ said Grisham.
Then he noticed me and Lenny, still standing there listening.
‘What are you two doing?’ he shouted. ‘You’ve got a job to do. Get out and do it. I want a result on this yesterday.’
6
Lenny and I went back to the car, and he drove slowly round Brixton. I was feeling lousy, and wanted another drink, but I knew that would have to wait.
He spotted Sailor Grant outside a fish shop, eating chips out of a bag.
‘Sailor,’ said Lenny.
‘Who?’
‘The little shithead there, eating his supper.’
I looked at the man that Lenny had pointed out. He was about thirty-five. Short, thin, and shifty looking. His hair was blond and lank and lay close to his head. His face was as vacant as an empty shop. He was wearing jeans a size too big, and a jacket a size too small.
Lovely, I thought. As upstanding a citizen as I’d seen in a long time. This geezer was a pull waiting to happen, and we were ready to oblige.
‘Who is he?’ I asked.
‘Sailor Grant. Used to be in the Merchant Navy till they threw him out for conduct unbecoming. A right nasty little scrote.’
‘What does he do?’
‘Takes his cock out in front of little kids mostly. Hangs around the schools. You know the type. He’s scared to show it to a grown woman in case she’d tear it off and stuff it down his throat. I’ve nicked him half a dozen times myself.’
‘Does he do more than flash?’
‘Not so far. But there’s always a first time.’
‘Carol Harvey’d be a bit old for him, wouldn’t she? If he’s into young kids. Nonces are like leopards, they rarely change their spots.’
‘She’s only fourteen, Grisham said. And we don’t know how big she is. She might be right up Sailor’s alley. Or maybe he thought it was time to progress to bigger and better things.’
By then, Sailor had turned and was walking along the road, still eating his chips, and we were shadowing him on the other side of the road. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get anywhere.
‘Gonna give him a tug?’ I asked.
‘Sure we are.’
Lenny waited for a gap in the traffic and steered the car across the road, and let down his window. ‘Hello, Sailor,’ he said, and the way he said it didn’t sound in the least bit funny. ‘Got a chip for me?’
Sailor Grant almost dropped the greasy package he was holding.
‘Hello, Mr Millar,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘You been a naughty boy again?’
Sailor’s face went white, and I could see that he was trembling at the question and the tone in which it had been put.
‘No, guv. Honest.’
‘You haven’t got an honest bone in your body,’ said Lenny.
He stopped the car and got out. He took the bag of chips from Sailor’s hand, and dropped them into an overflowing litter bin where a few slid out of their container, and joined the rest of the rubbish on the pavement.
‘Get in,’ said Lenny. ‘We’ll give you a lift.’
‘It’s all right, guv. I can walk, honest.’
Lenny grabbed him by the upper arm, opened the back door of the car, thrust Sailor into the back seat, and slid in after him. ‘You drive, Nick,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep our friend company in the back here. By the way, Sailor, this is DC Sharman. Remember his face. It’s for sure he’ll remember yours.’
I moved over to
the driving seat, put the car into gear and pulled away.
‘Where to?’ I asked.
‘Just drive.’
This was all years before the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. We often used to conduct interviews in the car then. All the better to get a cough from the suspect.
‘Where were you earlier this afternoon?’ asked Lenny.
‘About.’
‘About where?’
‘Just about.’
‘Who with?’
‘By myself.’
‘Sailor doesn’t have many friends,’ said Lenny to the back of my head. ‘Do you, Sailor?’ he said to our prisoner, if you could call him that.
‘I’ve got friends.’
‘Are they all horrible little nonces like you? Or do you count the little kids you frighten with your willy?’
Sailor didn’t reply.
‘A young girl was raped earlier today,’ said Lenny. ‘Round the back of the town hall. Did you get up that way at all this afternoon, Sailor?’
‘No. Honest. I was on the other side.’
‘The other side of what?’
‘Brixton. I was up Stockwell way.’
‘Handy that,’ said Lenny.
I pulled the car into the kerb, set the handbrake, and turned to face the back of the car.
‘Did you touch the girl?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know no girl,’ said Sailor, happy to talk to a new face who might be on his side.
‘We’ll get a doctor to examine your privates,’ I said. ‘He’ll be able to tell.’
‘I had a bath. I’m clean.’
‘You don’t know the meaning of the word,’ said Lenny.
‘When?’ I asked.
‘What?’ said Sailor.
‘When did you have a bath?’
‘This morning.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Lenny. ‘Sure it wasn’t this afternoon, after you screwed her?’
‘No.’
‘Have you been wearing those clothes all day?’ I asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘We’ll search where you live,’ I said. ‘And examine all your clothes. If you’re lying…’
